recursal/SCP-RECURSAL huggingface dataset:
Critters crawling
Through the endless void
Webs unravel
Universe destroyed
Colors shifting
Our time is cracking
Memories gone
Cognition now lacking
S-R-As up
Technology shakes
Can we save it
As we note the stakes
The world smashes
We scramble to fix
Broken pieces
Our worlds intermix
Spiders and men
Working back to back
The ground breaking
All under attack
Trees made of gems
We walk into
It all starts to break
We do not fall through
Floating lands rise
As we scramble up
The islands crack
To stop their long fall
The spiders home
With the Foundation
Portals and tech
Our heroes station
Now as one group
Save the universe
Hold it as one
For better or worse

A gift for CelesteKara
With thanks to Uncle Nicolini.
The Jailors tossed away their keys and set their wards free
When the brass played.
The Bookburners extinguished their lights and left without a fight
When the brass played.
The Brokers melted down their coins, estranged loved ones they joined
When the brass played.
The Mekhanites wound their springs down, their connection with WAN redound
When the brass played.
Frequencies switched off, Vikander-Kneed and Westhead blown away by the quaff
When the brass played.
The Watchers left their site, no longer caring about being proven right
When the brass played.
The Pugilists put down their gloves, their pointless crusade away they shoved
When the brass played.
The Librarians closed their books, to the next adventure they looked
When the brass played.
The Circus gave a last bow to their biggest crowd
When the brass played.
The Evasive Man tipped his hat, and that was that
When the brass played.
The Fae left their forest, an ancient song of peace chorused
When the brass played.
The Queen declared checkmate, not a second too late
When the brass played.
The Zookeeper's life work complete, they drifted off to sleep
When the brass played.
And no one gave a fuss, when the world turned to rust
because the brass played.
Do you see how brightly the moon shines over the forest of green? Its brilliant red dancing along the emerald canopy as the lords look on from their balconies stained with blood. Oh, my dear, how the crows see it so clearly.
Those wondrous creatures float ever so gently from land to land, never bound by the confines of the universe forever keeping these worlds separate. As those dressed in their cloaks and masked remain ignorant of those who wander without a name, the crows shall not be held back by such restrictions, the crows are truly free.
See how in the night, when our queen shines so brightly upon the city of crimson, where a single white star shines lovingly by her side, so look upon it now and wish. Witness as this wondrous creature glides away from its masters' side and over the impassable walls holding us in its uncaring grasp and into hills basked with leaves and bush!
The lords of black and yellow, red and blue remain ignorant to the treachery of the crows and their queen. Unknowing of their tricks to bypass their walls.
The King's hatred boils as he is forced to watch his subjects walk alongside those horrid smiling beasts. Their freedom hanging over its head like an unattainable prize remaining eternally out of his feeble reach. "Those disgusting creatures" cried the God-Shaped Hole.
Oh now, how those pitiful forest folk look up in awe as the white crow soars through their unknown home and the men dawning masks walk happily through the underbrush, seeking a home free from the scorn of their colorful lords.
"Oh my, how horrid!" you can hear them cry as the crow of white guards from up above.
You'll often hear "those poor creatures, hiding behind their masks of porcelain white" said in a swift reply.
But the crow of white will not respond to these whispers. They simply look down upon the weary travelers in their cloaks dipped in vermillion.
"Oh, dearest travelers walking through these hallowed woods!" they would call through the forest of towering pine.
"You poor, poor things. Please, allow me to have your attention, come sit for a spell!" they cried, smiles too big to be truthful. The traveling men would look to them but the white crow would simply sing in their stead.
Oh, that white crow, that wondrous beast. The watcher of the ones who dare to escape from the city of ruby. The one unstained by their spiteful evil, always floating to and fro, always between the town flooded in wine and the darkest oaks until those travelers feet reached a home free from their grasp, singing away their deceitful calls.
Forevermore would that crow fly, until its duties were done.
Ah, sleep soundly now, Miss Moon. For your white knight sleeps by your side once more and those you look down upon have found a new home, free from those colorful lords, forevermore…

With thanks to Luxaaj, Luxaiko, AvocadoMilk, Fish^12, Thanatian, and LAN 2D.
Hey Mom,
This might seem like a suicide note but it really isn't, I promise you I'm still alive even though it doesn't seem like it. Remember the story you told me about myself? When I was a child, you'd place toys all around me and a little pillow in the centre of that toy-circle, and I'd spend entire days playing with them, and falling asleep in it. You made me a little world and I must have really liked it, because I never truly escaped. Thank you for staying at home and cooking for me. Whenever I feel unmotivated to continue studying you'll always come and chat me up and tell me how much you love me. Thanks for that too. I know you expected great things from me: you wanted me to become a lawyer and get rich, find a good wife and let you carry my baby. You probably expected me by your death bed, holding your hand and sending you off. But I'm sorry. I know it's not your fault, you just wanted the best for me, but I really can't handle it anymore. I always fear the disappointment you'll feel when you see me getting an F on my subjects and I know it's just not possible for me to live the grand lifestyle you have envisioned for me. Lately, I've been writing some stuff for a site and I've started to really feel alive again, just like when I was in that little toy-world as a child. I also finally found friends there! They all love the site as much as me and it's so fun to talk to them, they don't feel fake and pretentious like the sons of your gossip-friends. I haven't felt this real for so long, there's just this deep emptiness inside me all the time when I do anything apart from writing, doing anything that you expect me to do. This life of being loved and having a good future doesn't suit me. I finally found a way to live with my own passion and creations! This is a last goodbye note because I have a feeling that I won't see you ever again. Thanks for all that you have done for me and I'm sorry I was a disappointment and never achieved anything until the end.
Desmond

One (1) new message!

FORENSIC ANALYSIS RESULTS Case #G782

To: Dr Samuel
From: Dr Kylie
Subject: FORENSIC ANALYSIS RESULTS Case #G782

Introduction:
On the 5th of November 2021, the corpse of Desmond Shaw, a 17 year old male, was discovered at his place of residence. Dr Kylie and his team began the investigation, determining the cause of death being overdose on Hydrocodone. Small amounts of LSD was also found at the scene in a small plastic zip lock bag. No foul play suspected.
A Warning
We all have a chance somewhere
To reign eternal or just be fools
In some corner of the skies
One house for you, one set of rules.
But not since the knocks.
In the dark they saw nothing at the door
For the skies were clouded by paint
By the time the people knew their fate
Their cries were dim and faint.
They were never cool.
The next door fell and with a cough
The bleeding king rose from his seat
But had stumbled barely to the door
When trampled under its feet.
Disease was never a virtue.
The metal scraped and chunks united
The homes and people mixed
But iron still makes a fantastic knife
By their own hand the mechanics were nixed.
The pieces were never found.
A flamethrower and an atom bomb
Right at the invaders head
But only the boys in blue and white
Were stained in a moment with red.
They only Destroy, Destroy, Destroyed themselves.
The readers and the freedom fighters
Saw nothing else to do
So they opened the door with a smile and a tear
Knowing at least their aim was true.
The library WAS a space for peaceful study.
Greed and rage were all that lived
In old Cal and Aaron's domain
When the skies fell and smashed on the floor
Even the Red Right Hand was slain.
There will be no vengeance, intermittent or otherwise.
Our minds in the void are all that's left,
Nothing left in our magical hats
The final hope of all that thinks
Is with you, the world of bureaucrats.
Are you the ones chosen to lead?
I went through my checklist three times before hitting the button meant to send me across the cosmos. Everything seemed perfect.
The SCPF Athens was the pinnacle of Foundation engineering: a ceramic steel composite frame with built-in magnetic field generators to protect the occupants from errant debris and cosmic rays. A prototype cold-fusion power plant capable of generating 2,000 megawatts of power. Three sub-light engines that could produce up to 1G of accelerative force until you turned them off or the universe dies.
Then came the crown jewel of human achievement: The Elastic Jump Drive. A mixture of magic and technology that could, with a modest investment of power, weave a temporary way through spacetime and allow travel to anywhere in the observable universe.
After a period of time that depended on how much power you supplied the drive, it would pull you back to your original jump point. It allowed nothing to travel with you that you didn't bring in the first place and it left nothing behind.
Take nothing but pictures.
Leave nothing but footprints.
Kill nothing but time.
We'd done this test a dozen times already. With insects. Dogs. Finally a chimpanzee. They'd acted a bit odd when they came back but who wouldn't?
This was our first time sending a human across the void. And I alone would tell them what wonders I saw there.
I pressed the button and the control boards lit up like a Christmas tree. A power spike. A big one.
You know, I've had some time to think about what brought me to this place in my life. The long nights. The short relationships. That year with Diana.
I was always so busy. Paperwork. Funding requests. Grants. Crossing the t's, dotting the i's. This was supposed to make up for all of that. My crowning achievement for a life unlived.
Back to the power spike. My eyes, my hands, even my beating heart jumped a thousand-thousand lightyears in an instant. But I remained.

And now I can't feel.

No sensory input. No pain. Nothing but the void. Still, the ship carrying my skin should come back.
It must come back.
I don't have the luxury of looking out into the universe while I wait. I sing to myself, but I hear nothing. I try to remember how she smelled and it's almost beyond my reach.
I've been waiting quite a while. And now I'm thinking about the thing I've been dreading. The power spike. What if my body didn't survive the trip?

 I'll stay here.

 Alone.
RE:RE:FWD: Keeping Your Children Safe this Christmas North of 40 Degrees
From: Dr. Amelia Buck <ten.pics|kcuba#ten.pics|kcuba>
To: Dr. Anne Worcester <ten.pics|2retsecrowa#ten.pics|2retsecrowa>
I have no idea what I'm looking at. To think amnestics were a thing all those years, only for this to happen. Here's another I found.

SCP Foundation Warns About Anomalies in Halloween Candy?
By Dr. Taylor Kaldahl
October 29, 2022
Is YOUR CHILD at risk of a taste-based cognitohazard? Are Halloween parties the perfect place for a containment breach? And are teens doing anomalous seasonal TikTok challenges? It's a complicated question.
Every year, police warn about drugs in Halloween candy. But this year, we have a new problem for parents to protect their children from. If you've been keeping up with the news you'll know that newly-publicized "anomalies" can hide anywhere. And that means children's candy as well.
We did our OWN research and found a since-retracted document from the Global Occult Coalition published in 2003 suggesting taste-based cognitohazards are a real threat? Clearly parents shouldn't take this risk. So how do you detect if little Timmy is about to swallow an eldritch monstrosity? Well that's where Today's sponsor, SkipSensor comes in! SkipSensor comes with over 100 hume monitoring processors and 10 different scanning modes! Simply swipe it over your kids candy, and it will be easy to keep harmful effects away from your precious family.
Next up, keeping safe at Halloween parties. Leaked foundation documents have PROVEN your teen COULD be attacked by a monstrous invincible being while out for festivities. Keep your teen safe with the all new "SCPinger Instant Help Radio! For just $42.99 your teen can walk home safely with the Foundation just a button click away!
Finally, it's the Skip Game challenge. A recent trend on SnapChat has encouraged teens with mild anomalous effects to STEAL things from teachers with their so-called "superpowers". Your teen may be participating in this dangerous activity, so sign up for Full-Time Phone Memetic Monitoring by ANOMATRUTHS. At an affordable $30 a month you can make sure your child isn't participating in these dangerous behaviors!
All of us parents would appreciate if the next challenge is the "Working Hard is An Anomalous Power" challenge.
COMMENTS:
#1: MOMOF2KIDS2022 Said: ISNT THAT THE TRUTH. DONT WANT MY KID EATING ANYTHING BUT NATURAL CANDY.
#3: MSCPGA2024 Said: And who put the Anomalies in candy? Probably the deep state, the Foundation isn't really running things we all know. #ClefAnon
#2: MSCPGA2024 Said:
My daughter's boyfriend must be an anomaly because he disappeared.

Anne, this is madness. Between this and latest "096ing" challenge on TikTok, who knows where we're headed?
FWD: Keeping Your Children Safe this Christmas North of 40 Degrees
From: Dr. Amelia Buck <pics.tenpics|kcuba#pics.tenpics|kcuba>
To: Dr. Anne Worcester <pics.tenpics|2retsecrowa#pics.tenpics|2retsecrowa>
I can't believe I'm reading this. I don't think I will ever get used to this. Especially after seeing "anomaly29.com" and "buzzfeed.com/skips" become a thing.

Keeping Your Children Safe this Christmas North Of 40 degrees
By Dr. Taylor Kaldahl (Former SCP-4666 Specialist, SCP Foundation)
December 22, 2021
It's our first Christmas since our cover got blown, and there's no skip gaining as much attention this week as SCP-4666. While your chances of being the unlucky one to get, y'know, chopped up and made into toys are pretty low, most parents aren't OK with "pretty low". Without further ado, my advice on SCP-4666 and how to not mess with it.
1. Shoot the dude!
You see, part of the problem for us is we can't get to the victims fast enough. There's nothing to suggest a simple 9mm to the skull isn't enough to stop it. It's not like the lizard is comin' down the chimney with old Saint Nick. Ideally you wound it and we contain it, but you do earn a free medal of honor from our friends in New York if you pull off this option.
2. Send your kids south of the line for the week.
Problem here is you're increasing the chances for everyone else. If you don't care that's okay, but it's not the recommended choice. Plus, explaining to your kids "I'm just sending you away from home for a Christmas so you don't get flayed alive by an eldritch mockery of Santa Claus" will make them ask why you live where you do in the first place.
3. Spend Christmas in a hotel.
Expensive and tricky but it works. Boring though, and Motel 6 on Christmas eve is still full of crazy naked guys who might still skin you alive.
4. Let us put a photo of SCP-096 in your chimney
Available on request.

Jesus Christ Anne, they get one crazy doctor to interview and post this shit. Or as they say in the 'Pataphysics department, "Pure LOLFoundation." Gotta keep churning out the clickbait.
image in mail by dado

A little story I wrote, another dado one. The entire idea for this came from Doctor Cimmerian, big thank you to him, check out his stuff here. Thanks to AnAnomalousWriter, HarryBlank, Impperatrix and Tstaffor for their always appreciated critique!

Image Credits

The image is an edited version of lookcloser.png, taken from SCP-5000, created by Tanhony, and is under CC BY SA 3.0.

▸ More by this Author ◂

{$comments2}

F.A.Q.

{$doesthisfixthebug}

From: meisdado@dadomail.com
To: vrequet@scp.net

you is buy fine dado chowder.

From: ten.pcs|teuqerv#ten.pcs|teuqerv
To: moc.liamodad|odadsiem#moc.liamodad|odadsiem

What?

From: ten.pcs|teuqerv#ten.pcs|teuqerv
To: moc.liamodad|odadsiem#moc.liamodad|odadsiem

Who is this?

From: moc.liamodad|odadsiem#moc.liamodad|odadsiem
To: ten.pcs|teuqerv#ten.pcs|teuqerv

yes, you is spoken to dado. sry for typhoons, uppercase key broken.

you is buy fine dado chowder.

From: ten.pcs|teuqerv#ten.pcs|teuqerv
To: moc.liamodad|odadsiem#moc.liamodad|odadsiem

…..Your IP Address is a broken egg.
What do you want? Why are you sending me that image?

From: moc.liamodad|odadsiem#moc.liamodad|odadsiem
To: ten.pcs|teuqerv#ten.pcs|teuqerv

dado is blackmailing you, no? yes dado learnt it from very fine customer also internet, it no working?

YOU HAVE BEEN BLOCKED BY ten.pcs|teuqerv#ten.pcs|teuqerv

More From This Author

More From This Author

Machen2's Works

SCPs

SCP-6225 (+42) •

SCP-6358 (+65) •

SCP-6036 (+95) •

SCP-6744 (+39) •

SCP-5671 (+30) •

SCP-6989-J (+13) •

SCP-6790 (+131) •

Tales/GoI Formats

Fire & Hate (+34) •

I, Want You All To Stop (+8) •

Lachrymose (+19) •

Other

A Normal Day At The Foundation (+31) •

Machen2 vs. Machen1 (+39) •

Machen's Art of SCP-5140 (EVEREST) (+65) •
I often walk down the halls of my site and hear various people discussing how familiar some of the anomalies in our care are. Creatures and beasts that spark the imagination, reminding people of stories they heard growing up. It's true, honestly- a non insignificant number of anomalies in the Foundation's care are creatures and concepts that are familiar to the general public as they have a place in human legends and folklore. The question that normally follows is why? Why is the public allowed to effectively know that these creatures exist? These are anomalies, things that go against the natural order of the world and by all means should be hidden away and never heard of again. The Foundation has the means to effectively wipe all knowledge of these entities away from the general public's subconscious, so why doesn't this happen?
Webster defines "culture" as "The customs, arts, social institutions, and achievements of a particular nation, people, or other social group." Culture is who we are as people, and it is unique to every single person. It is informed by your lived experiences- where you come from, how you were raised, everything you've gone through in life helps to shape your personal culture and identity and in turn your culture and identity shapes that of others around you. Culture is how we as humans create a unified understanding of how we interact with one another and the world around us. It creates our beliefs, our customs, our understanding, and so forth.
So what does this have to do with anomalies?
Once again, if you look through our files you'll see familiar names and descriptions. Creatures iconic to various cultures from around the world, from the South American Ya-Te-Veo to Chinese Dragons. Truly, nearly every mythical beast either is real or was real at some point. Our stories come from a place of truth, so why does the general public keep these stories?
Culture is a multifaceted thing. Each of these creatures plays a role in our culture. It's well known that humans have been telling stories since they first learned to communicate with each other, basing these tales on the world around them. The crackling thunder was a furious god, and the beast with red eyes was something to be feared. These stories created understanding, and they became tales of morality and lessons to internalize.
To answer the question I keep hearing, "why don't we just eliminate them from the public's memory?" Simple- in doing so we would fundamentally lose a piece of who we are as humans. We would lose the stories that shaped us as people and helped us understand the world around us. Our culture, our identity, would be fundamentally changed. These stories have their place in inspiring awe and fear in us, and as a result there's no way to remove it without fundamentally changing what it means to be human.
And besides, isn't it nice for the world to feel a little more magical?
~Dr. Faran Caraway
A sun exists, inhabited by deities that a dead man knew, that a dead man wrote about. The dead man provided instructions to ask the beings that live in the sun for a favor. The cost of the favor is eternal servitude. A shortsighted man accepted these conditions.
The dead man is still dead. The shortsighted man still hates.
Years After Death: 10,855
This is not an eternity.
The deity obliterated a target from existence. In return, the shortsighted man promised to stoke the fires of its hatred eternally. And so the shortsighted man now exists with another entity. The shortsighted man makes the entity suffer. Then the entity makes the shortsighted man suffer. And again, and again, and again. Objects to aid are manifested into existence by a thought, only by the torturer. The only limit is the imagination, but both are learning. They hate each other. They will always hate each other.
The fires of hate burn.
Y.A.D.: 9,245,188
This is not an eternity.
They both think. They both have thoughts. They both exist to suffer and to cause suffering to each other. Eons ago their actions surpassed the unspeakable, the abhorrent, the horrific.
The shortsighted man still thinks about the next action, about the next day, about the respite he is granted when he is the inflictor. He moves forward, still conscious that there was once something before. There is still hate, there is pain, and there is the other.
Y.A.D.: 1.0 x 10^107
This is not an eternity.
They both respond. The actions, which begun an unimaginable span of time before, have become simple. They hate, they inflict. Stimulus response. The man's head is either empty or filled with fog. There may have been a time before this. A time when there was more. No evidence for this has ever seemed to exist. And there will be nothing else.
Y.A.D.: 1.0 x 10^10^3,472
This is not an eternity.
Stimulus response has burned away. There is only action. There has only ever been action. The shortsighted man remembers nothing else.
Pain is irrelevant. Pain exists when compared to when it does not. It has always been. It will always be.
Hate has become numb. Everything has become numb. Sensation ceased so long ago, it never was.
Y.A.D.: Time has long, long since stopped having any meaning.
Any semblance of "before" evaporated long, long before the very last living star in the universe faded to black.
It is dark.
There is another.
They still are.
There are no memories.
There is nothing to see.
There is nothing to feel.
There will be nothing else.
It is dark.
Eternity has begun.
A fatal error was encountered! Please relaunch under a different alias — hover to recall lost data. tap to recall lost data.

On my first day, you took me to a home for ghosts and said,
"Here's your place. You're our people now."
You handed me a gun I couldn't use and said,
"Keep it close. Devils enter near to hand."
You showed me evocations of what we hunt and said,
"Stay safe out there. Some of them survive in your head."
You gave me an office, and a neighbor, and a keycard to nowhere and somewhere,
And said,
"You'll fit right in." survive in your head

My vision circumspected your face and I wondered if that's,
normal at all.
If it's suspicious that my concept is fractured, and memories of memories of myself have picked up the pieces.
That recollection bleeds from my psychoform and areas of vital importance are caught in promise.
Sometimes I'll cough and cry, and a structure in my brain which is not me extends its arms to hug the version of myself I lost in the Partition. fit right in
Another person handles days like this and says,
"It's alright to not know yourself."

I know.

I am a socioparasitic anomaly waiting to be unmasked.
I am a psychohazardous baleform wanting to be locked away.
I am a maladaptive corrosion of the human experience begging to be contained.
I am notes taped to desktop screens and ink etched on paper and the nods of heads in white stairwells.
And I just
wish
you would say to me,
"Can you step out for a minute? We need to talk."
And someone would clean out my office while I'm gone for the day.
Or the month.
Or the year.

Or however long it takes a humanoid's heart to leave a cell just its size.

Data recalled! Things will be alright, I just know it. 🫂
WAR OF TWO GODS!

What gods? Mekhane? Yaldabaoth? Neither of them. This war is about two omnipotent gods. But, who are they?. They are The Old One and The New One. They are the light, the dark, they are everything. They created us, gave us life in this world. But everything must come to the end.

The Old One has lived for thousand years, when things began to start. He beat other Elder Gods to become the most powerful one. You want to hear his victory? He won many battle of gods. He created many children to serve him in the war. In his army, he gave magical and strength to six special children: The Doctor, The Bodies, The Eel, The Site, The Cave and The Screamer. His mind gave our mankind four tales to predict the future. His voice likes hundreds of swords and his eyes, deep as the Great Abyss.
So, what about The New One? Oh, he was born hundreds years ago. They call him The God of New Age, a Lonely Warrior, The Rounder One,… And now, he becomes the Challenger. A warrior who looks into the eyes of death and stands his ground. A warrior who uses his hands to fight and his head to think. Along with him, is the Swine God, The Man Who Wasn't There, EVEREST and many many more. Step by step, he defeats the army and approaches the King.

And finally! The war between them will begin. The war will decide our trivial fates. Their war will bring to the end of us. No, no, not only us but also the multiverse. The War Of Flesh? The Seventh Occult War? Cannot compare to them. They will let Mother Nature to decide the winner and the defeated. Their battle will become legend in the Seventh World.

▼ THE WAR IS WAITING FOR YOU ▼

▲ THE WAR OF TWO GODS ▲

spike plant vs weird structure house. Best war ever!
"Of course it has to happen the one day I have a day off." Doctor Stephen Strange clapped his hands, an amber circle of levitation spell appearing in them. The attire of Sorcerer Supreme and the Cloak of Levitation replaced his street wear.
If the Ancient One heard me she'd probably laugh, saying that the Sorcerer Supreme has no days off.
And she would be right.
Doctor Strange flew towards the tilted and corroded Chrysler building, coated in slime and goo. He paused for a moment to pay respect to the unfortunately consumed inhabitants. SCP-106 did not have the same reverence towards the dead, however, and the rotting old man jumped from the building towards the levitating Doctor.
Only to phase through him harmlessly, and plunge right down to the 42nd Street.
"Ha." Doctor Strange let out a laugh, relishing the short few second of his enemy's folly, before opening a sling portal right where the old man would impact to the depth of Mariana trench.
But of course, the Master of Mystic Arts was not the only one that could play with Portals—everyone could, really, the bundle is just ten bucks on Steam. Instead of disappearing into the abyssal darkness of oceanic depth, 106 reappeared behind Strange, from a corroded portal surface on the building across Chrysler in 42nd1, his arms ready to hug Strange from behind.
In the first time for millennia, 106 spoke.
"Nothing personnel, kid." And his power activated, digestive goo starting to coat Strange's Cloak of Levitation.
Empty, Cloak of Levitation.
Strange plummeted towards the sling portal he opened earlier, smug in his superiority, nevermind that his prized Cloak is now consumed by the rotting old man, nevermind that he hasn't actually won, and nevermind that the portal was linked to the darkest pit on Earth.

Wong wiped tears from his eyes. "He was a good man, and a good friend. A bit of a prick, but good friend nevertheless. And he died as he lived: with poorly landed jokes."

Footnotes
1. I've never been to old york let alone new york so hell if I know what it's called
Thank you all for coming.
Today we lament the tragic passing of one of our finest agents and researchers, dearest Jared, who died last Saturday by accidentally falling down the stairs and straight into the containment chamber for the blood-sucking bone-breaking brain-eviscerating monster fetus spider-snakes, which was left open by pure happenstance and no-one is really to blame, I think we can all agree on that.
Well, who just was Jared? Friendly, funny, always aiming to do his best. He will be very well remembered by every single one of us, due to his many astounding accomplishments and unfathomable achievements during the twenty years of his employment. Who could forget the time Jared spilled hot coffee all over Dr. Gears' extremely important papers, which directly led to the gruesome torture and murder of thirty retrospectively innocent D-Class subjects?
Some words from you, Charles? No? Well, I think he still remembers it, don't you, Charles?
Speaking of remembering, didn't we all have a laugh when Jared managed to delete the concept of his own surname, along with good ol' Dr. Fjord's ability to comprehend numbers above seven and the entire east-wing of the radioactive wasteland Site-59 would transform into by causally completely unrelated events?
Yes, Jared always left a striking impression on people, even without the memetic agent on his name plate which he wore for thirteen hours straight and made people peel off their faces. Some might say without Jared we wouldn't have an Antimemetics Division today - ah, there they are, still made it - and wouldn't that just be awful?
From Site-19 to Overwatch, Jared's journey through the inner mechanics of the Foundation gave us many opportunities to test the capabilities of our most hazardous and cruel containment protocols and I just have to say thank you, Jared. Words alone cannot express our gratitude and appreciation, which is why you all have a bow and some arrows under your chairs to show his mutilated corpse how much we all miss him.
I can assure you that all movements and gestures his body might make are merely involuntary muscular spasms caused by the still active neurotoxins in his circulatory system.
With that said, who wants to be the first?
close

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AHAHAHHAHA YOU MORON IMAGINE LOOKING IN THE RATING MODULE


In the depth of the night, Talloran crouched to the floor gayly, his hands around his Cobra Enterprise Inc CA380 380 ACP Carry Conceal Pistol with Pink Grips from sportsmansoutdoorsuperstore.com with an attached Sniper ZT 5-25x50 FFP First Focal Plane (FFP) Scope with Red/Green Illuminated Reticle and Gangster Spongebob custom decal.
In his sights, the greatest Evil-Doer of all history, a man guilty of Warmongering, skilled in Leadership, all while having a stare that could weaken even superheroes and a hobby of Spreading Hate… Adolf Hitler (Captain Planet) himself.

please stop commenting that i didnt write adolf as true to his character! i used trustworthy sources and i know that they are right! look i even have my sources cited:
“Adolf Hitler (Captain Planet).” Villains Wiki, villains.fandom.com/wiki/Adolf_Hitler_(Captain_Planet).
this also means you can't ban me for plagiarism because you hate me so much! nah nah nah boo boo!

With just one shot, Talloran could finally end adolfus's evil tyranny… his trigger finger tensed up as it began pressing down.
bang.
Talloran watched as the bullet exited the barrel of the Cobra Enterprise Inc CA380 380 ACP Carry Conceal Pistol with Pink Grips from sportsmansoutdoorsuperstore.com with an attached Sniper ZT 5-25x50 FFP First Focal Plane (FFP) Scope with Red/Green Illuminated Reticle and Gangster Spongebob custom decal in what felt like slow motion. But his world, his gay little world, his epic little reality… it crumbled before him. And he realized… that wasn't Adolf Hitler (Captain Planet)… that was Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria (Turtledove Book Series)! All he could do was watch as the bullet flew into the Archduke, leaving him dead as a dead guy.

will u guyz shut up already! I KNOW I AM WRITING FRANZY RIGHT!!! STOP TRYING TO SAY I AM NOT!!! i USE MY RESOURCES and RESEARCH on BING DOT COM unlike SOME OF YOU!!!!!!!! again i have left my sources below. >:(
“Franz Ferdinand of Austria.” Turtledove, turtledove.fandom.com/wiki/Franz_Ferdinand_of_Austria.

But that wasn't even the worst part. That's right, something even worse than the start of World War I happened.
The worst thing that happened, the event that made Talloran feel like throwing a tantrum… it was that his true love, his Cobra Enterprise Inc CA380 380 ACP Carry Conceal Pistol with Pink Grips from sportsmansoutdoorsuperstore.com with an attached Sniper ZT 5-25x50 FFP First Focal Plane (FFP) Scope with Red/Green Illuminated Reticle and Gangster Spongebob custom decal faded away.
Three nine nine nine slowly rose behind Talloran's back. And it spoke:
"your jordans are fake as FUCK"
and thats all i wrote
"Oh shi-"
Iceberg narrowly avoids certain death by ducking to avoid the controller at the last second. What the hell was that? Did someone just throw a controller with enough force to break through a wall? It's been one day since Site-19 got an Xbox, are people seriously already flipping their shit at video games? Unbelievable.
He grabs the controller and storms into the new Site-19 game room. If this were a cartoon, steam would be coming out of his ears right now.
"Who the fuck threw this? You almost killed me!"
He's expecting it to be either Clef or Kondraki. He's not expecting Gears to be the only person in the room, sitting in front of a game of Call of Duty. Gears doesn't react to Iceberg's loud entrance for a moment, but eventually turns to face the stunned doctor with the same blank expression he always has.
Iceberg is too shocked to react at first as Gears silently walks out of the room. When he's able to process information again, he turns back to the hallway.
"Gears?"
Gears turns back to face him. Now that Iceberg isn't completely floored, he can see that the other doctor's eye is twitching slightly.
"Hello, Doctor Iceberg. I apologize for endangering you. As you can see, I had a brief lapse of judgement while using the new entertainment system."
"I can see that, yeah. Are…are you alright?"
"I'm perfectly fine."
"You sure? You threw that controller really hard-"
"Yes, I'm aware, thank you. And yes, I am sure. Now, if you'll excuse me."
Gears begins to walk away, but turns around just before leaving Iceberg's vision.
"By the way, please inform xxDarkShadow42069xx that I had sexual intercourse with his mother last night. Thank you."

The next morning, Gears finds a small punching bag on his desk when he arrives at his office. There's a note taped to the top.
"This is a much better way to let out your anger. If you almost kill your assistant again, I will throw you out of this site.
-Aktus"
He knew he was fucked before he even got the call.
As Bright makes his way to the office that will almost certainly be his final resting place, he goes through possible excuses in his head. It was an accident, one of the researchers under him did it, he was taking a shit when it happened, none of those will do. Fuck, he's almost there. Come on, think of something!
…Will it even matter if he has the best damn excuse in the world?
Before he knows it, he's standing in front of the door to his doom. Before he enters, he takes a few deep breaths, building up confidence. He can do this.
He opens the door to find Jean Aktus, Site-19's director and one of the most widely-feared men in the Foundation, glaring at him. He can't do this.
"Have a seat, Jack."
Well, looks like this is it. After over a century, Jack Bright is about to die for the final time. He's hoping that he does a good job of hiding his fear as he sits in the chair across from Jean.
"Do you know why I've asked to speak to you today?"
How could he not?
"Yes, sir."
"Then why don't you tell me?"
Normally, he would crack a joke about Jean not being one for small talk right about now, but he might actually be drawn and quartered if he tries that here.
"You want to speak to me about the, uh, incident that happened a few hours ago."
Silence. Is Jean thinking about what to do next, or is he just dragging it out for his own amusement?
Finally, after five seconds that could have been an hour, Jean begins talking again.
"Jack, do you know how long I have been Site Director here?"
Oh God, where is this going?
"Twenty-two years, sir."
"Correct. That's twenty-two years of dealing with absurd nonsense because of you and your colleagues. I thought I had seen everything in that time, but you have proven me wrong today."
Jean pauses to take a breath of oxygen. Oh boy, here it comes.
"Jack, why the hell was a giant Furby tearing up my site earlier?"
After all, What is 682? It's a lizard. A hard-to-kill lizard that suffering from chronic abuse. Acid baths, isolation, gunshots, electroshock, burns, poisoning, cutting with industrial lasers, vacuum exposure, exposure to other hostile anomalies, etc., etc., etc. And worse, every day some other idiot comes up with a new method of termination, which results in the end in a new form of torture with no permanent results, right?
The point is, what does a lizard like? Think like a lizard, specifically a pet lizard. That lizard would like to live in a comfortable terrarium, with plants, plenty of sunshine, freshwater, delicious food, etc.
So what would happen if you gave the grumpy lizard a decent place to live????

This would happen:
You are currently viewing Additional Document, Iteration G of the documentation for this entity.

The Giver of Names, the Bestower of Wit, the Slayer of the Thunderbird, the Creator of Lies, the Sun-Stealer - the Trickster of all Tricksters - looked up from his altar, and saw what was happening.
The deity laughed - a cacophonous laugh that echoed towards the stars - the very ones he placed there eons ago.

The figure once known as Coyote laughed, for the foolish mortal had fallen for his trap.

"Pray tell… what exactly were you expecting to see here?"

"You even looked in the source code to try and find what you're looking for? You're one of the rare people to fall for it twice!"
Researcher Chen,
Down on his luck,
Took a deep breath,
And bellowed out, 'FUCK!'
He slammed the door,
To his own room,
Dark clouds hung 'bove,
Such doom and gloom!
With a loud groan,
He lay in bed,
Heard deep laughter…
…Felt trickling dread…
From out the corners,
Came two arms!
They gave 👍;
And meant no harm.
Of course, Chen gawked,
How could he not?
But would it stop him?
If he got caught!
Clutched in one hand,
Was a baggie,
Of jumbled wonders!
Sandy and craggy!
"Wanna get high?"
The hands did sign,
In no time at all,
Chen did a line!
At first, he coughed,
Then his nose bled,
Then he woke up,
In his old shed,
The bed was there,
Just like before!
Despite it all…
"Do you want more?"
The hands presented,
Thin white strips,
Placed 'pon Chen's tongue,
Just the tip.
Chen's sight turned orange,
He went, 'AAAHHHH!!!!'
Oh, the bed's plans,
It had no flaws,
Chen next woke up,
Upon his roof,
His eyes both red,
And half-aloof.
"How 'bout I give you,
One last gift?
It's green, and stinks,
But goes down swift!"
The bed produced,
A small glass phial,
Liquid green,
And a stench…vile…
Within the fluids,
Bounced green threads,
Thick and clumpy…
They looked…dead…
Oh…oh, goodness…
"Bottoms up!"
Bed's fingers snapped,
As thunder roared,
And lightning clapped.
POW!
…that's what you get,
For trusting a skip,
You piss for brains.
RIP.
Dear Bambousio Starswinger,
I am currently writing this letter because I have a few words on the subject of clown eggs. In your latest newsletter, Corruption Within The Clown Industry: A Controversial Opinion by Bambousio Starswinger you had stated “Don't” on the subject of consuming clown eggs. Frankly, after seeing this, I'm more concerned about which one you hatched from. I originally had a somewhat respectful opinion of you, but this is where I draw the line.
As an avid and locally-established Clown Farmer, I would like to point out that the harvesting and consumption of clown eggs is the best possible product from a clown, for the following reasons. Removing eggs from the nest also removes the responsibility from the mother clown, allowing her to get right back to comedy work without experiencing exhaustion or other side-effects associated with raising newborn clownlets. Additionally, ingesting clown eggs provides a safe home for the clownlet upon hatching within the stomach, and supplies the consumer with high-grade comedic material while the clownlet matures into an adult clown. While inside the stomach, the comedic routines of the clownlet can frequently be heard, giving both the host and nearby individuals entertainment for hours on end. The development of a newborn clownlet takes only a week, and the process does not impact the daily life of the host in any way. When the clownlet matures, the clown will simply entertain the host until they regurgitate their friend as a result of excessive laughter, whereupon releasing a new clown into the world.
Hosting a clownlet is a joyous and wholesome experience, and one that should rightfully be reserved for anyone who isn't a two-faced buffoon. I'll bet my house that you genuinely wouldn't be able to tell the difference between a clown and a jester if they flopped up to you, wrapped you in handkerchiefs, and left you in a prop shed to die of starvation. You are a disappointment and a travesty to any clown caretaker, and I hope you get run over by a car populated with clowns, in such a way that by the time they have all left the vehicle to contact paramedics, your corpse has completely decayed. It's completely disgusting that you would even think of criticizing the perfectly-safe livelihood of both me and many of my friends, all while trivializing it with a one-word comment.
In fact, to prove the safety and security of clown egg consumption, I am going to eat an entire carton of clown eggs the exact moment after I finish mailing this letter to your abode (which is no doubt infested with clownroaches). I ask you to tell me what could even go wrong?
Respectfully,
A Disgruntled Clown Farmer
What could possibly go wrong?
It seemed like such a harmless request. An invitation from an old friend to their social circle, one who knew about his voracious hunger for the mysteries of the world. Sure, he knew of the club's grim reputation, everyone had in those days… but he knew his friend, and he knew his own self. thought to himself, what could possibly go wrong?
Far away from his thoughts, he groaned in pain, shifting against the chafing restraints. With movement came the voices.
"Subject Alpha is seizing, hold him down. Movement will ruin the procedure."
Heavy arms came, holding him down to the table. It was always the same crew, three women and two men. Six out of seven days, they would do nothing but watch, take notes, talk to each other about arcane measurements he had no scale of reference to. Occasionally others would come in. They were always terrified of them. He had no idea who those faceless men and women were. They seemed to know him however.
On the seventh day—
The scalpel cut into him again, and he screamed. They did not hate him, or fear him. He just wasn't a person to them anymore. He was a canvas, to be shaped whatever way they pleased.
What could possibly go wrong?
He had originally volunteered for this, what felt like countless ages ago. Who wouldn't have, the way the circle had described it? He thought he would become a living god, but he became a slave instead. As quickly as they had welcomed him, they turned on him.
He caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror once. A wretched misshapen mass, no longer a man, but a tangle of twisted scars held together by sinew. Seeing what they had done changed things, he thought to himself, and he saw all the willpower drain out of him. He no longer fought, he no longer begged, he no longer cursed his captors. He just existed.
Once, he had dared to hope. He had woken from another dream of the howling dark to hear running and shouting. Then there was gunfire, explosions. Screams. Could something have happened. Could someone have come to rescue him?
He didn't recognize them, these black garbed soldiers speaking of "anomalies" and "task forces" and "subject alphas." But they were kind. They had bandaged his wounds, and carefully brought him on their helicopter. One man went so far as to help him eat a nutrient bar — he almost cried. He hadn't eaten real food in ages.
But they left, and the doctors came. They wheeled him into a strange room, taking all sorts of measurements of him. They studied the marks his former colleagues had made on him, consulted arcane books, and brought stranger after stranger to examine him and make soft-spoken remarks to be written down.
And then they picked up the scalpel, and began to carve.
He screamed again. He could no longer remember who he was, or the shape of his own face. All his world was now the cut of the scalpel. All his world was now pain. All he wanted for it was to stop.
All he wanted was to die.
James Talloran didn't remember much. He couldn't remember his first day of high school, or the day he got hired at the Foundation or his Doctoral Thesis- but he remembered the day that Draven Kondraki asked to marry him.
It was on a beach, just outside Big Sur. It was colder than either of them had expected, but frankly, that gave them an excuse to hold eachother closer. They didn't much like swimming, anyways- James' pale skin burnt too easily, and Draven's hair frizzed up something nasty.
After a short walk, Draven dropped to one knee, pulled out a ring, and asked Talloran to marry him. Draven had never been one for opening up, and James remembered laughing that night about how his Fiancé could face down a breached Keter without breaking a sweat, but a short proposal speech left him flustered and bright red.
James was glad he could still cling to some good memories, even if they seemed so long ago.

James Talloran didn't remember much. He couldn't remember the feeling of his labcoat, or his SCiPNet password, or what day of the week it was- but he remembered the day that Draven Kondraki asked to marry him.
It was in a dry patch of grass on the side of the road. It was colder than Talloran had expected, but Draven yelled at him that he should have brought a coat. The sun beat down through the clouds, and James could feel his skin turning an angry pink before his eyes, and Draven's hair began to fall out in clumps.
After a short walk, Draven collapsed, blood oozing from his welting flesh. He coughed up a ring, and asked Talloran to marry him. Draven had never been one for opening up, and James remembered weeping that night about how his Fiancé had faced down a breached Keter without breaking a sweat, and died painfully following his short proposal speech.
James was glad he could still cling to some good memories, even if they seemed so long ago.

James Talloran didn't remember much. He couldn't remember the feeling of blood in his veins, or what it meant to be human, or the meaning of the word "peace"- but he remembered the day that Draven Kondraki asked to marry him.
It was on an ocean of teeth, under a raging sun that screamed loud enough to make their ears bleed. Stormclouds that gave no repreive from the sun rained down broken glass. They started coughing blood as the impossibly sharp dust shredded their lungs. James' pale skin sloughed off like pulled pork, and Draven's hair began to turn to snakes and chew at his eyes.
After a short walk, Draven dropped to the floor, his body collapsing into a pile of viscera and knuckle bones and asked Talloran to marry him. Draven had never been one for opening up, and James remembered laughing that night about how his Fiancé's body had erupted with spiders as his flesh turned to flaming cornsilk and needles in the wind.
James was glad he could still cling to some good memories, and couldn't wait to make more.