recursal/SCP-RECURSAL huggingface dataset:
What was fragmented is now one. What was in pieces is now fixed. That which was broken is now whole. She who was dormant is brought forth.
We have succeeded in our task. The future of the Broken God is secure, and soon She shall convert us all. Already the Americas have fallen to the one true ruler of mankind, and soon She will convert all into beings of purity.
I was but a cog in the machine that completed the work of our great Church. We were fragmented, ourselves broken, until She came unto us with words of wisdom and prophecy. Before, the evil Foundation had managed to scatter the Church and us pure followers far and wide. We reunited under Her banner, and rode forth, towards that which would complete the Broken God, and make us Whole. We attacked under the cover of darkness, and soon the Heretics, the Foundation, those who were the keepers of the Broken God, had been destroyed, their weak bodies of flesh and bone smote down and crushed. The operation was smooth, and soon we controlled the Pieces. The Pieces that would be made Whole, become remade in Her image.
They are combined, as unto Her commands, and into a new future we move, each second a step towards the Earth being made Whole. A new beginning, each tiny cog of Humanity becoming part of that which is larger. We shall continue until the very earth beneath my feet has been purified. Then we shall be One.
Now, the Earth lies at Her feet, for now the Broken God has come forth, and we are remade in the purest form. I can feel my insides beginning to change, change into that which soon will control the whole planet. Purest clockwork, ticking and spinning away, forever. None may stand before us now, for we are in tune with each other, the Eternal Tick reverberating inside us, inside all of us.
These are the last days of Humanity, and we are their destroyers. Soon all will be remade, remade into that which is eternal.
She is whole. The Broken God has come forth. The world will become perfect. The world will be Whole.
It has been written.
The door was heavy, and old, but still strong.  It sealed the passage tight, blocking even light from around its edges.  The hall was claustrophobic, and in near total darkness but for the dim, drooling light from the far-off stair. He beat on the door again, feeling the thick reverberation bounce through its solid core.  He could try and pick the lock, or bash it in, but that was not the way.  Not their way, never.  Respect was always foremost, even at the utmost end of need.
He folded back on his haunches, his sigh turning the dust on the long-abandoned floor.  He looked back, at the dim stair, and considered again just going back, letting it go.  He thought this way for a long time, then stood with a new, more burning resolve. He went and knocked again… and again… and again.  He hammered on the door.  He beat on the door. He slammed his fists over and over, thundering against its mocking, ageless weight. He beat his fists until they split, spilling blood that looked like deeper, slicker smears of darkness onto the unrelenting wood.  He threw himself against it, biting, clawing, gouging at the wood like something rabid and in pain.
Finally, he slowed, then stopped, pulling away from the blank wood with an almost sheepish slink.  He folded back up again, letting the split, reeking flesh stop pulsing and start to knit over. He turned the black, pulsing mass that gave him sight to the door again, split tongues lolling as he chastised himself for his reckless, misplaced hatred. They had gone, those many, and hidden deep in their vaults.  This may be the last, the very last flake of rotten flesh left of their abandoned body.  Their endless impatience had called to them for correction, so…they had come. Man had hidden deep in their vaults, their short-sightedness leaving them no retreat, no escape.  
Now they waited, delaying their final lessons with every futile breath… But to worry and to lose one's temper was not the way of the People.  He resolved that, once ages had turned the door to dust, he would show them the folly of hope.
One eon at a time.
The water was cool, if a bit murky. The lake was the color of tea, owing to its past as a logging route. Great banks of long tree trunks would bob and sink, staining the lake. At least, that's what the boy's grandpa said. He dove off the dock, slipping into the cool water as easy as an otter, his sunburned skin drinking in the cooling water.
The lake was very deep, and quickly he was over the vast, deep edges, paddling softly with the easy grace attainable only by the happy few who know the width and depth of summer break. He turned over to his back, the murky, tea-colored haze buoying him up on billows of cool water. He flicked his hands with a careless annoyance as he skirted a patch of loosed seaweed, sending it bobbing away. He watched the clouds, listening to the empty hum of the lake in his ears.  
He slowly noticed more patches floating about him, and bobbed to vertical, wincing as his feet kicked and brushed the slippery, brown strands of weed. The strands twitched and clutched with their soggy strength, and he sighed as he started to plot a course out of the muck.
Deep below, the twitching strands stirred the muck they were rooted so deeply in. The mud puffed… then bulged, rising softly in a great mound. Then it opened eyes, great sludgy orbs the size of cars. It slowly rose, freeing its gnashing maw, and drifted up to see what its feelers had found.
Everything was screaming.  The dials, the readouts, everything was screaming, but he noticed none of it.  What he noticed was the heat. He was burning.  Not on fire, but inside, burning with a searing heat that was cooking him inside out.  What's more, the tiny capsule was so sealed, so perfectly fitted, he couldn't even twist or writhe to burn in a new position. The radio squawked and squealed twice before going silent, the tiny plate starting to warp as the shoddy, overwhelmed heat shield continued to buckle under the reentry force, the flames licking white and golden past his tiny porthole.
Still, the heat was not what filled the man with fear, what made him afraid of not only his immediate and untimely demise, but what may possibly be waiting beyond it. The baking flames did not form a total wall over the tiny porthole fixed over his sweating, softening face. They divided in the middle, blocked by the hard, sharp point of a chin.
The face watched him, staring, vague suggestions of limbs holding to the sides of the window.  The face watched, even with no eyes, no mouth, the blank, vapid nothing still so hellishly suggestive. It watched, smiling a nothing smile as the tiny bit of grit burned up in the thin, searing atmosphere…
and its breath fogged to frost on the burning, bubbling window.
"Where are His clockwork servants?
Where is the work of His hands?
Where are Her digital lovers?
What are His broken commands?"
Vasily swallowed hard as Father Aglayev wiped a slim bronze blade on a bright red cloth. The man's grey hair gleamed oddly in the flickering half light as he brought the knifepoint to rest lightly on the flesh of Vasily's left palm, and he muttered softly a question to which they both knew the answer. The chanting of the acolytes surrounding them nearly drowned out Vasily's reply. "Yes, father, I am certain!"
"How can we hope to rebuild Him
if we are still creatures of flesh?
How can we claim that we serve Him
till our bodies are broken afresh?"
Even as Vasily's blood dripped softly to the floor, father Aglayev poured oily liquid from a slim vial onto the wound, tears of pride in his smiling eyes. "Vasily, my son who I have raised as my own, I annoint you into His service. With this, you are ready. Go forth to do His work!"
"What marvels are in His remaking!
What wonders are in Her control!
His Broken Gears turn forever
restoring the penitent soul!"
Father Aglayev held Vasily for a moment in a strong embrace before helping him to his feet. "Come. Your things are packed. Go, missionary, and spread His Broken Word!".
"How can we not spread His message?
How can we not serve His will?
How could we stand in His presence
and let Him remain broken still?"
A few days later, Penitent Vasily Aglayev walked nervously down a crowded street, glancing at the people he passed. His father had told him that so long as he made it here by the appointed time, his duty to the Church would be done. Suddenly, he stumbled.
"In light of the bodies He grants us
what now are our fleshly ones worth?
Through Her intervention we serve Him!
Through Her we will remake the earth!"
Vasily moaned in horror as he felt something in his body begin to change. His father had-
He blinked.
Vasily twitched for a moment, and continued walking, pausing occasionally to touch passerby on the arm or shoulder, muttering His blessing. His step grew regular and a smile formed on his face as his clockwork mind realised the glory of the task before him. This was a blessing he must share! Already the sunlight glinted from the tiny gears beginning to form behind his eyes.
"We are His Clockwork Servants!
We do the work of His hand!
Those who oppose will forgive us
when they are made to understand!"
A woodcutting, commiſsioned to depict the capture of the dread beaſt, with a great number of aſsailants upon the flesh of its back.

AN ENTRY for the expreſs Purpoſe of addition to the Guild Catalogue of Phenomena. Should the Poſsibility ariſe that this document fall into the hands of a non-member, the poſseſsor is required by Guild Charter to deſtroy it completely by fire.
THIS PAGE documents an occurrence on the date the ſeventeenth of March, the Year of Our Lord 1785, at the harbor of Boſton, Maſsachuſets Commonwealth. On the morning of this day, a ſingle fisherman, whoſe name remains unmention'd herewith, returned to Port with a number of ſtrange wounds upon his veſsel and perſon. He was extremely frightened, shouting that an incredible beaſt of six-and-a-half rods had devoured a great quantity of Ships and had injured him thus. He deſcribed it as a whale of un-natural proportion, with a thouſand gnashing teeth and multiple tumor-like protruſions. After this report, many young men armed with muſkets and pikes embarked to deſtroy the Creature.
THE BEAſT approach'd the harbor and caus'd the deaths of the armed men with great rapidity, meanwhile bellowing in loud and beleaguered tones. The Harbor Batteries were fired upon't with no effect. The Whale-Beaſt appeared to be not injur'd by normal means. By the Grace of God, Guilds-man Sir James F. was preſent and was able to act in the circumſtances. It was only thru the ingenuity of Sir James F. that the Creature was captured. He caſt a great quantity of fish into the harbor, drawing the creature near. Sir James F. then gathered the Sailors at hand, who flung down anchors from the dock. The anchors were caught upon the fleshy parts of the back of the Beaſt, acting as if fish-hooks. It ſtruggled piteouſly, and men climbed the mount of its back and ſtruck it with blades, until the time at which it was ſubdued by direct and cloſe cannon-fire.
SIR JAMES had theſe anchors fixed to a galleon, by which means the Creature was dragg'd to a bay eight miles to the North, at a location undiſcloſed herein. It remains there, chained to a cliff-face, whereupon it feeds on fish. A troupe of armed men is ſtationed to maintain the impriſonment of the Beaſt, warding off paſsers-by on foot or Sea. Should the Whale-Creature attempt to break free, theſe men fire upon't with cannon and muſket until it is ſubdued, so it may be re-chain'd.
THIS TEXT conſtitutes page two hundred and eighty five of the ledger of the Guild for the Retrieval and Documentation of Abnormal and Otherwiſe Un-Chriſtian Phenomena.
Have you ever had that feeling? When you drive home from work, or walk home from the store, or do just about anything you've done a thousand times in your life. And you are almost home already, when you suddenly realize that you don't remember how you got there.
No, that's not right.
You remember how you finished your work, remember how you walked to the parking lot.
And then…you must have driven home.
But details are vague and blurred and when you try to remember them there is just nothing there.
You say to yourself that this is just a quirk of your mind. You've been driving that same path for years now. Today your mind just shut itself off and let your body do the deed. The price of routine. The only escape from everyday life you have left. Happens to everyone once in a while. Perfectly normal. Nothing to worry about.
You're wrong.
This is what a class-A amnestic feels like.
Communication Intercept:

Document recovered leaving the central mailing service at Site 4. Letter appears to have somehow bypassed basic screening services, and was picked up only by the hand-sorting staff shortly before delivery, as they noticed the lack of proper post-screening stamps.
It is unlikely that the letter was intentionally set to bypass security measures; however, Site Security is reviewing security footage, and re-evaluating the communication screening procedure.
Letter content has been attached to this report for later security review as/if needed. Original letter destroyed due to security clearance restriction conflict.

Dear Alison,
Please forgive the lateness of my letter. You may remember that my work has often kept me from standard daily activities, and with my current employment it has been doubly so. Months and years have a disturbing tendency to blur as one grows older.
I do not think any apology will be adequate for my sudden departure, however. I am sure it was a confusing time for you and your mother, more so for her as you were very young at the time, if I remember correctly. I was called away right after the… troubles reached something of a peak, and I imagine she was very distressed at my sudden absence.
I write now due to an article I recently encountered, dealing with theoretical space-time anomalies. While insightful and well explained, the most glaring portion of the article was the section identifying the author as yourself.
I can see that you are following the lines of research I myself was exploring before my… departure. I must advise you against this. Whether it comes from your genuine curiosity, or an attempt to find me via backtracking my work, it would be advisable to abandon this plan of action. I have followed it to the end, and am now… not where I would wish you to be.
Seek other fields of study. Stay away from the corners and dim edges of reality. Turn your focus to more practical and basic ends.
Forgive my bluntness, both now and… then. Know that it was, and is, necessary for me. Despite what it has caused.
Love,
Your father.

“Throw me daddy!”
“Oh, I don't know, mommy gets nervous when I throw you high…”
“Throw me, throw me, throwmethrowmethrowme-”
“Ok, ok, slavedriver…”
She shrieked, suddenly launched in to the air, sailing up several feet, coming down in a blur of hair and laughter, squealing anew as she made the journey again, begging “Higher, higher” in breathless gasps. She smiled, so trusting and small, sailing
Doctor?
Sailing down, wanting to spin now, arms exhausted, but unable to resist, spinning the tiny girl.
“Faster daddy, faster!”
Doctor?
“Watch me daddy!”
…Yes?
Doctor, you've been requested in conference room eight. Containment review meeting.
…I will proceed there immediately.

Does a mind bend…
Work Journal 2
Or does it break?
Opening Moves
Memories
Jason surveyed the scene. The place was a mess, broken glass scattered across the floor, small puddles of blood and chemicals here and there, and three dead bodies lying in the middle of the room. Jason shook his head. Things had gotten out of hand real quick. Two of the scientists had pulled guns on the Foundation team, and in the ensuing firefight all three scientists were killed. Walking through the room, Jason spotted a piece of paper jutting out beneath a shelf, just the corner visible. He picked it up, and let out a sigh as he looked at it. A photograph of a family, smiling happily in the nice weather. A woman in her late forties, with a kind and caring look. A little girl, no more than ten years old, beaming like she'd just won the grand prize in the lottery. And a man, probably in his early fifties, one arm around his woman's shoulder and the other holding the girl's hand. On the back, in very neat handwriting, was written “We'll miss you every day you're away. Love, Carla and Lily”.
Jason shook his head. The two who had drawn guns were probably members of some shady organization, looking to weaponize or profit off of the SCPs they had acquired, but this man… He hadn't fought, and had seemed completely surprised and terrified when his colleagues started shooting. He had cowered beneath a table, and been hit by a stray bullet. He probably had no idea what they were really doing, perhaps too excited about working with such unusual samples to notice anything suspicious. Jason looked around the room, making sure nobody could see him, and pocketed the photo. He took another round through the room, making sure he hadn't missed anything important, and headed outside.
Back in his quarters, Jason sat down on his bed and took out the photo. He looked at it for a little while, and then pulled out the small box he kept in his desk. He unlocked and opened it, slowly looking over the contents. He'd have to get another box soon, this one was getting full. Inside were a number of items; a locket, a scratched and cracked CD plate, several photos, a broken watch, two drawings in crayon, and many other small objects. To anyone else, just a random assortment of trinkets and junk.
But Jason knew that each of these items had a history. Each had been taken from a site where the Foundation had run into a conflict that had claimed the life of someone whose only wrongdoing was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. They hadn't known why they were killed. And their loved ones would never know the truth. Jason knew though. He had held onto these things to make sure he would remember. The truth might be hidden, but it wouldn't be forgotten. Not so long as he lived. He understood all too well how necessary the work of the Foundation was, and why secrecy was so important. He knew that sacrifices had to be made. But the least he could do was remember those who had been sacrificed for the sake of all of humanity.
Doctor Matthews sat back in his chair, sighing some and rubbing his eyes. Why the hell had they dragged him out of bed so early? He stifled a yawn and smiled as his field partner, an agent named Stimson, sat down next to him, leaning back in his own chair with a similar expression on his face.
"We shouldn't have been out drinking so late…" Stimson whispered.
Matthews laughed a little, looking at the slowly filling auditorium. "I know," he replied. "We should have just gone to bed and woken up ready to work," he said. "It's only our day off, after all…"
Stimson shook his head some. "God… Did you see those two research assistants from Site-11?" he asked. Matthews leaned forward a bit, nodding. "You get their numbers?" he asked. Stimson laughed. "Got more than that… You should have stuck around…"
Matthews grit his teeth for a moment in frustration. "Damnit, Stimson… Why the hell do you tell me these things?" he asked.
Stimson snickered as a finger struck a microphone, calling for attention. Matthews sat back in his chair, looking toward the stage as a man in an impeccable suit stepped out, looking at them all and nodding. "Hello," he said, his voice an odd mix of intonations. "I want to welcome you all this morning and apologize for getting you up so early…"
Stimson rolled his shoulder a little bit as Matthews leaned over, whispering in his ear. "Who is this guy?" he asked.
Stimson shrugged as the man on stage continued. "I wanted to talk with you all for a moment… about our mission. It's important, you know… very, very important…"
Matthews frowned. Why the hell was this guy speaking like that? he thought, rubbing the bridge of his nose for a moment. He shook his head, trying again to clear the haze of sleep and drink.
Stimson leaned close again. "Isn't he an O5?" he asked.
Matthews shook his head, squinting his eyes tightly, trying to concentrate on the words again. "… all of them must be collected. The plan must proceed as scheduled…"
Stimson nodded. "Yeah, he's an O5… I'm sure of it."
The other shook his head again. "No, he isn't…" Matthews said. "I've seen the O5's…" He sniffed at the air a little, wondering why he suddenly smelled popcorn.
"… and as soon as we've got them all collected, contained… Our work will have finally begun. We cannot let them stop us, slow us down…"
Matthews head ached for a sharp moment, blood running from a nostril as his temples throbbed. He brought his palms to his eyes, shocked to feel his heart beating through them. And then… a sudden pain just behind his right ear, and he slumped backwards.
"We will serve. Contain. Protect," the man intoned. "And then… We can begin."
Everyone started clapping their hands together as the speech ended. Everyone except Matthews and two or three others scattered throughout the crowd. Stimson rose, clapping hard, trying to make his own applause heard over the others. When he heard the chant, he cursed inwardly for not thinking of it himself first, but picked it up nonetheless:
"Thirteen! Thirteen! Thirteen! Thirteen!"
The One Who Devours Souls arrives in the bleak, gray hours of the morning, when all good men lie afearing their beds. He (for it is a he, though the strange raiments it wears, and the viscous fluids in its hair make its sex vague) steps from his carriage, a cursed device made for kings in distant lands and bought by the persecution of righteous men, and walks, measured and even as old age, to the threshold, where he strikes the door but thrice. He calls my name, and chills run down my spine, as though death itself were upon me. Death would, in fact, be a blessing, compared to the torment this creature intends for me.
I shake my head, but he strikes three times again, and says my name. I quail in my chair, staring bleakly at the place she once sat beside me, before the doom befell me. Three times again, and paid for all. Thrice three, and I am compelled to rise, to unbolt the door, and let the creature in.
He takes my hand in his, his grip like a leech's. My hand falls back to my side, my strength gone. I fall back to my seat, and he takes the other. The place where she once sat. Does he know? He must. He knows all that is in my house, from attic to basement, room to room. There is little that could have escaped his notice. His lists.
He speaks and his voice is like unto the droning of insects, and I can feel a burning madness in my mind. How could his voice have beguiled others so? And yet it had, for what other explanation could there be? How else could my situation, once so full of fortune, have turned to Jobian loss and regret? The words, it was his words! Nothing left his mouth that was not carefully selected, the words placed one after the other like the stones of a wall, seeming so innocuous until you noticed the traps he had lain, and then it was too late.
He lifts the container at his side, and places it reverently on the table, like an idol placed just so before a sacrifice is laid screaming on the altar. The latches are opened with an ominous click, and from the darkness thus revealed, he pulls out several documents, their words arcane and their meanings as treacherous as a pit of vipers.
"Read," he commands. I try, knowing how much is at stake, knowing that one missed word will ruin me, even beyond the state I find myself in, but my mind can make no sense of the twisted sentences. I read, and re-read, and can no more tell you what I see than I can recall the vows I once made to her. Finally, I give up. My eyes hollow, I stare up at him, searching for some trace of humanity in that dead visage, some remnant of charity or pity. He returns my gaze, and I look away, unable to meet those cold, reptilian eyes.
"Sign here," he says, gesturing to a line. I find a pen in my hand, though I cannot recall having picked it up. Numbly, as though I were only watching it happen, as though I were not an active participant, I sign my name in an unsteady script. More lines are singled out for my name, my one true name, and so I give him power over me.
"Thank you, Mister Johnson," he says, picking up the briefcase. "Your ex-wife will be expecting the first alimony check no later than thirty days. Good day."
[Tempest Night, 18:43]
Dr. Clarkson walked the halls, holding the scroll in his hands, careful to avoid confrontations. After a few minutes, he was able to stop screaming, and concentrate on his goal. Collecting new minds was painful – there was no room for the new memories, so the old poured out – but this one was necessary. Now he knew where to go – Minimum Security Block 3-A, home of SCP-343.
He arrived with little incident. Block 3-A was an oddity tonight, in that it was entirely untouched. No invaders, no escapees, no agents, nothing. Perhaps 343 had created some illusion so that none of them could see it? No matter. He had always been good at seeing things as they really were. The door at the end of the hall was open, and Clarkson walked into what appeared to be a Victorian English study.
343 looked up from his armchair next to the fireplace. “█████-██-█████, I've been expecting you.” 343 said calmly.
Clarkson was only mildly surprised that 343 knew his real name. You could expect no less of “God.”
“If you know who I am, then you know why I'm here. I have a gift for you.”
He held the object forward, and “God” accepted his offering. The battle was on. He had waited over three thousand years for this, and it would be over, one way or another, in minutes.
The call came into Assistant Adams at Central Control the next morning. “I have one of your SCPs, and what's left of the fellow who brought it here. Kindly send someone to remove them both," SCP-343 said. Smug as always.
Agents Walters and Johnson looked over 343's voluntary containment area, noting the lack of damage.
“Quiet night for you?” Walters said. “Not for the rest of us. You could have helped, you know.”
“Not so quiet after all,” replied 343, motioning towards Clarkson, slumped in a corner of the room, obviously dead. “Besides, sometimes it's for the best in the long run that these things happen. Maybe you'll understand one day.”
Johnson swore that 343 actually looked tired. He checked Clarkson's vitals. Yes, as dead as he looked. He helped Walters load Clarkson onto a gurney and wheeled him out.
“You said you had something of ours?” Walters asked.
“Oh, yes.” 343 casually picked up SCP-911 and dropped it into the waiting bag. “Don't touch it; it may still be omnivorous. Er, I mean, anomalous. I think I need a nap.”
"Don't we all. I'll be seeing you, sir," Walters said. He took SCP-911 and headed for Temporary Containment Area C. Eventually, someone would get the door to High Value Item Storage repaired.
The Collector closed the door to his new room and smiled. It was glorious to finally possess a mind capable of holding thousands of years of thoughts, with room to spare. No more screaming: at least, not from him. It had been in Clarkson's thoughts, something he had learned in a lecture from someone called “Assistant Director Clef.” What odd names people had these days.
“The greatest weakness of Reality Benders is their overconfidence,” Clef had said, and someday 343 911 would be pleased to tell Clef that he was correct. Until then, there was plenty of time for him to learn the intricacies of reality bending. And English.
He closed his eyes and began taking his nap.
I was led into the room by two men in black, their eyes hidden by sunglasses. Maybe they felt pity for what was about to happen to me, maybe they didn't. One of them shoved me down into a chair. Did I feel a tremble in his hand, or was it just me lying to myself, trying to fool myself into thinking there was some regret in this godforsaken place.
I knew why I was there. The murder of my wife. I knew it was wrong, but I didn't care. For that one moment where my hands were around her neck, I was God. I knew I wasn't the Devil, as I saw him looking at the new arrivals to that place. Our new prison. A great new opportunity to serve our country. Freedom in a month!
It was Hell.
A doctor walked into the room and sat on the other side of the cold, metal table. “Hello, D-839229,” he said, a small smile playing at his lips. He had seen this before, the bastard, and was probably looking forward to seeing what hell I would go through.
He placed a small bronze ring on the stainless steel table. The initials H.T. shone from the light reflected on them. It didn't look like anything special.
“Please wear this ring, D-839229,” the doctor said, and leaned back.
I'd seen people shot for refusing to do what the doctors said, so I reached forward and tried to put the ring on one of my fingers. It refused to fit no matter how hard I tried. Eventually, I just put it on my pinkie finger.
“How are you feeling, D-839229?” asked the doctor.
I looked up. Goddamnit, this jerk was playing with me, making me put on some dirty old ring. “Fuckin' hungry,” I replied sarcastically. Then the pain began. I jerked forward, blood trickling out of my mouth. Oh god, what was happening?
One of my teeth fell out. It landed on the table and started shaking, as if it were trying to get away. Within a few seconds, all my other teeth joined it. As I watched them in horror, they began to squirm and writhe and change shape. Soon, I was looking at a dozen miniature…sharks?
As I was taken away by security, my fingers fell off. As I was thrown into a cell, my toes. As they explain to me I'm in observation, the hammerheads that were once my eyes rip apart my sockets.
As I sit in the cold, my only company a single security camera, organ-sized sharks come up my throat, their eyes flicking here and there. They all come out, my liver, my lungs, my hea
Please sit down, Dr. Hurst.
I am Dr. Roy. Please don't stare. I apologise for the search, but we could not be entirely sure you were genuine. We've had quite a few people over the last few months who sought to cause…problems with us. But enough of that. Our friend in the Foundation gave me quite a bit of information about you, Dr. Hurst.
Of course we have people in the Foundation. Your friend, David, I believe. Just last week he sent us information on six possible recruits. David gave you quite the glowing review. 'Just what we need', 'A brilliant mind' and 'Able to do what must be done'. Now, that last one gives me hope. Let's have a look at this file, shall we?
Oh, you were involved with the Alaska incident? That was magnificent, you should be proud. The research data alone was extremely useful, as I can see. A few casualties, but these cannot be avoided in our line of work, can they? And you used another item to stop it? You've been wasting your time at the Foundation, doctor, you obviously belong with us!
Perhaps it's time I tell you what it is we do here. In essence, we're very similar to the organization you just left. We're not as big, I admit, but I feel that our very nature means we achieve more. Much more, as you will see during your career with us. We have three hundred and twenty six items currently in our possession. Actually, with your welcome gift we now have three hundred and twenty seven.
Take for example the ‘human serum'. Inject it into any animal and it will morph and twist into the approximate shape of a human. The samples they had, they locked away. But we had better ideas. We injected it into a human. Oh, the results. This is what you will do. Do what it is not right to do, because nobody else is able to do it. It's for the good of the world, doctor!
We have many more test subjects than the Foundation. The officials in the countries we place our facilities pay us to take their poor, their destitute, their useless. The people we use have nothing. They are nothing. But we can take them, use them, and then they are something, aren't they? They're the future.
I hope that in the future, wars will not be fought with guns. They will be fought with impossible things; wars will be ended in an instant. They could be ended before they began. I'm not evil. But the things we do have to be done.
We'll give you thirty test subjects for your first two months and access to two Vertigo items. You would call those Safe items, we don't. Bright new ideas, doctor, for a bright new future! Haha. Impress me, doctor. I'm sure you will exceed all of our expectations.
You are to use the items on the subjects, as I'm sure you know how to. Keep trying and trying until you find that moment where it all clicks and you're not holding something that should not be in your hands. When you find you're holding a weapon, you've done it. It's another small step, doctor. Another small step.
Oh, the name? We are a small force against the tide of impossibility, and this small force seeks to create logic out of illogic. What better name than the Chaos Insurgency?
Audio Log Site 17 PA System

The following was taken from backup recordings of Site 17 PA Logs. Due to the circumstance of their retrieval, some of the recordings have been lost or damaged. The timeline of the recordings has been reconstructed based on the events during Incident 234-900-Tempest Night.
1-1143: Wastes of skin, revolting bags of meat.
1-1245: [Electronic noise for 12 seconds]
1-1247: Rankling little piece of shit.
1-1283: Foreign [EXPLETIVE].
1-1286: [Electronic noise for 33 seconds]ut up.
1-1304: Level of a zoophyte, suited only for pond scum. You are disgusting.
1-1306: [Electronic noise for 23 seconds] [EXPLETIVE] [EXPLETIVE] [EXPLETIVE].

Blackguard Feed 087-104

1-1404 MTF-Ω1 (Blackguards), enters Sublevel-C3 from Stairwell 46.
MTF-Ω1-1: Stairwell 46 has become choked with debris. We are unable to proceed further. We will begin sterilizing Sublevel-C3 and head down through this section's sublevels from here.
OP-Ω1-1: Operator confirms.
1-1407 MTF-Ω1-4 and MTF-Ω1-5 open the electrical junction box for Sublevel-C3, revealing the interior circuitry, having since been heavily infested by SCP-229 and partially converted into a biological substrate by the effects of SCP-890. MTF-Ω1-4 begins severing SCP-229 using an oxyacetylene torch.
1-1408 Lighting fails in Hallway 67, MTF-Ω1 members activate helmet-mounted maglites. Electrical disturbances in Sublevel-C3 begin increasing in intensity.
1-1410 MTF-Ω1-4 has dislodged roughly 50 percent of the SCP-229 infestation.
MTF-Ω1-6: Did you hear that? [Insufficient Audio to Confirm]
MTF-Ω1-6 and MTF-Ω1-7 begin moving down Hallway 67, using the ignition flame of their XFOF7s to provide additional illumination.
MTF-Ω1-7: We got the front, one-five.
1-1411 All electronic systems in Sublevel-C3 fail simultaneously. Wires and cabling begin erupting from the walls around MTF-Ω1, severally wounding MTF-Ω1-4. MTF-Ω1-6 and MTF-Ω1-7 barrage numerous SCP-229 instances with chemical fire propellant. MTF-Ω1-1 engages masses of wires in melee combat with a trench knife, while pulling MTF-Ω1-4 to relative safety.
MTF-Ω1-1: [EXPLETIVE] they got the [EXPLETIVE] intel wrong again. Since when has 229 been prehensile?!
MTF-Ω1-2 retrieves oxyacetylene torch and continues severing the main junction box. MTF-Ω1-3 covers MTF-Ω1-2's position from the southern flank.
1-1412 Instances of SCP-229 lose much of their cohesion as the main junction box is largely destroyed. Instances are observed to infest each other, however by this time the SCP-229 population has been decimated by sustained fire from MTF-Ω1-6 and MTF-Ω1-7.
1-1413 Remaining SCP-229 entities rendered combat ineffective. MTF-Ω1-4 given first-aid, administered painkillers and an analgesic wrap to wounds sustained to the left arm and torso. MTF-Ω1-6 and MTF-Ω1-7 begin standard mop-up procedure while MTF-Ω1-1 through MTF-Ω1-5 begin searching for survivors and SCP objects.
1-1424 MTF-Ω1 exits Sublevel C-3.

Recovered Documents from [REDACTED]

Memo Advanced Stages of Infection
Compromised systems exhibit intelligence. Experiment terminated.
[Documents continue on file MEMO-299-D7]
“Well…” the old man said quietly. “I guess it's time the charade ended then, isn't it?”
Director Clef's eyes betrayed a hint of annoyance at being disturbed that quickly faded… “Hello, Konny,” he said in a bare whisper.
Kondraki dropped into the chair, bushy eyebrows rising slightly, followed by a smile. “I'm glad you remember me, Clef,” he said. “I was worried that you would forget. It's easy for someone like you to forget things, after all. Are you liking the nice, cushy job? How are your boys?”
Clef frowned. “I don't know what you're talking about, Ko—“
“Drop the bullshit, Clef… You keep doing your damnedest to lie yourself out of everything. To lie in circles, keep people guessing… But I finally figured it out. It took me a while—a very long while—but I finally got it. Heh. Clever bastard.”
Clef eased himself backwards in the chair. “And?” he asked.
Kondraki smiled. “It's easy. You see, I spent years analyzing the records of you… Your exploits here. The things that you were willing and not willing to do. It took me forever to figure out why 682 had that moment of hesitation… Why it didn't kill you. Why reality benders don't fuck you up like they do other people. Why 343 shits his pants at the sight of you.”
“And?” Clef asked.
“It's simple,” Kondraki said. “You're God.”
Clef laughed. Hard. Leaning over, he coughed loudly, struggling to breathe. Minutes passed until he was completely out of breath and had to stop, leaning back in his chair.
“Really, Konny? Me? God?”
Kondraki smiled, eerily. Madly. “Certainly,” he said. “But not just any God. You're Poopstick McGee… And I… I AM THE FLYING WALRUSES!"
Clef smiled slightly. "Yes, Kondraki. Yes, I am. You finally figured me out…"
Kondraki laughed hysterically as the orderly came into the room. "Sorry, Docta Clef. He slipped away from me again…"
Clef laughed. "No problem, Rodney… Konny and I are old friends."
"POOP STICK! POOPSTICK MCGEE!"
Clef nodded. "You got it, buddy!"
The orderly walked Kondraki out of Clef's office, taking him back to his room and easing him into the bed, waiting for him to relieve himself in a bedpan.
He grabbed the orderly's arm… "He's Satan, you know…" he said seriously.
The orderly just smiled. "Last week, you said he was Adam," he said.
Kondraki's eyes went wide. "That's classified!" he screamed, throwing the full bedpan at the orderly. "EXPUNGED! EXPUNGED!"
The orderly ducked out of the room, and down the hall, Alto Clef laughed quietly to himself.
I began walking along the hall to the briefing room. Another situation had come up, and I was expected to be present. As I walked my secretary Gloria walked alongside, giving me a cup of joe.
"What's the sitch, Glor?" I took a sip.
"'Nother possible scip. Non-sent RB. Chrono. Might be artificial."
"No kiddin'? Big F?"
"Nah, not Big F or Dr. Dubya. They're thinking Pro Labs."
"Geez, ever since T-kill I haven't heard anything from that place."
She shrugged and opened the briefing room door for me. I nodded and thanked her.
"Gentlemen."
"Heads up boys, it's the SD."
"Whuzzat? The suck dick?"
We all laughed and I sat down at the head of the table, looking at the men before me. We'd been in and out of this room hundreds of times before. Everything from CBs to possible CI attacks made us cram into this room every day.
"What's the story, boys?"
"Big one this time Ralph. We're thinkin' a K."
"Well shit. I hear there's Pro Labs involvement."
"Yeah. Some Gawk guys gave us some intel."
"What?"
"Non-sent object. RB. Chrono, we're thinkin'. Might also be prob bending."
"Some Wie-oo guys actually found it, Ralph. Ran back cryin' all the way to the FBI."
I laughed. "We got an MTF on this?"
"Yep. A-23. No pro-rep from them yet."
"Ok. Big S is done. Big C?"
"Containment's goin' well. We got some psyche immunes watchin' it for a while, just in case."
"Big P?"
"Gawk had intel, so they might come after it. Can't break into here though under the Anom treaty."
"Right. Who's testing?"
"We got Doc James on the go. Y'know him. Did some work with HTD Rep."
"Oh yeah."
The radio crackled in at the center of the desk. "Got the dash E in our sites. Ready to big C. Requesting permission."
Frank leaned over and pressed a button. "You are go to contain Alpha-23."
"Roger that."
Frank looked over at me. "Another one in the bag, Ralph."
I nodded and watched the map behind him blip for a minute or two. The radio voice crackled on again. "We got a successful contain. Returning to base."
"Roger that, over and out." Frank turned off the radio.
I looked around. "Good work men. Lunch?"
They all nodded and we departed. I got a BLT.
Drip, drip, drip. Blood fell from Harold Jacobs' shattered nose onto the polished, tiled floor. He feebly tried to look up as he heard a rasping cough, but Valley's thugs did their job too well. A ticking noise came from the man restraining Jacobs. Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick. Valley coughed again, and Jacobs saw the old, wizened figure nod to the ticking man. His voice was like his cough, hoarse and sudden, as if every sentence that came out of Valley's mouth could be the last. With his current state, that was probably true.
"Show our guest to his seat, Mr. Tick."
Jacobs was surprised at Mr. Tick's strength as he slammed him into the wooden chair. He had scoffed when Mr. Carter told him about Valley's manservant. The man was diseased, for god's sake, how could he be a threat? As Jacobs tried to gaze at Valley through the ruined remains of his left eye, he realized how wrong he had been.
"Mr. Jacobs." Valley's tone was mocking. Using his stick-like arm, he gently placed one of Mr. Carter's notes on the table. "You are here to cheat me?" Next, he placed a tiny camera in front of him. "Or to spy on me?" As he placed the last item on the table, Jacobs knew that he was as good as dead.
"To kill me?" said Valley, inspecting Jacobs' gun. "A good effort, I'm sure, but Mr. Tick does not miss a tick." Then he laughed. It was the most awful sound Jacobs had ever heard. Valley stopped and grinned at him with rotting, yellow teeth. A drop of blood slid down from his cracked lips from the exertion of the act. "Who are you working for?"
Jacobs remembered what Mr. Carter had told him to say. His voice was a whisper, it was a miracle he could even talk with the beating he has taken. "Global Occult Coalition…mass liquidation of known threat entity…"
"Liar," snapped Valley. Mr. Tick's hand closed around Jacobs'. He had time to look up for a moment before Mr. Tick squeezed. Jacobs screamed in agony as he heard the loud crunching from what used to be his hand. "Who do you really work for?"
Jacobs was sobbing now. The pain was unbearable. "Marshall…Carter and Dark!" he screamed. Mr. Tick let go.
Valley looked worried. "They know of my operation here?"
"Yes." Jacobs struggled not to look at the crushed lump at the end of his arm.
"This is…highly unfortunate. We will have to think carefully of our next move, I think. Thank you, Mr. Jacobs. Mr. Tick, you may kill him now."
Jacobs opened his mouth to protest, but was cut short as Mr. Tick grabbed the back of his head and slammed it into the table. He was killed instantly and the table collapsed from the heavy impact. A cleaner stepped forward and began to wipe Jacobs' brain matter off the wood as two members of security threw his body off the balcony. A few seconds later, there was a far-off splash.
"Our old associates have discovered us, it seems," said Valley.
"Yes," said Mr. Tick.
"Nevertheless, I believe we can continue our operation here. There must be some demand for those things."
"Yes."
"We'll need to raise security, Mr. Tick. I don't want this happening again. I'll run out of tables."
"Yes."
“I was hoping this could wait, gentlemen,” O5-1 said, sitting back in his chair and sighing heavily.
“I was afraid that was what this was…” replied Eleven, running her fingers over her ear, pushing her hair back. “Are we sure we want to do this? There's a good chance that the ramifications could be far further stretching than we originally considered.”
“Perhaps, but then, we'd also run the risk of something worse. Stagnation is always better than deterioration. I wake up, look at the notes, and realize that I've got new memories… New things that I've done that I couldn't have. I just… couldn't.”
Three glanced up, his face ashen. “I… Do any of you remember me… being Hitler?” he asked.
Seven raised his hand, nodding a little bit to the ashen-faced man, then slowly lowered it. “Just as much as I remember recruiting Thirteen,” he said, jerking his head toward the other end of the table.
One glanced up at the room, his assembled friends and family, everyone who had meant anything to him for the past century. “We're in agreement then?” he asked. “In spite of the consequences?”
Everyone sat silently.
“Well,” he said. “Let's update our records…”

Additional Information On Protocol ZK-001-Alpha

Do Not Attempt To Resist

MEMETIC KILL AGENT ENGAGED. THAUMIEL INITIATIVE ACTIVATED.
Okay people, sit your asses down and shut your pie holes. I've got places to go and people more important than you to see, because I happen to be a scientist and we scientists have a tendency to be very busy and important people. If you're out there in the folding chairs, that means that you're the new guys. Bottom of the totem pole. But, it also means that you passed the entrance exams. Welcome to the SPC. From this moment onward, your job is very, very simple: you are going to punch sharks.
In the face.
You will punch sharks. When not punching sharks, you will be planning on punching sharks. You will be developing new ways to punch sharks. You will read about punching sharks. You will write about punching sharks. You will study punching sharks. You will dream about punching sharks. You will jump the shark. You will collect and contain paranormal objects, and then use them to beat up sharks.
Punching sharks is your life.
You may be asking yourself “Self, how am I to punch these sharks?” With your fists.
And you may ask yourself “Self, what if I am bitten by a shark? I am unsure of what to do.” Go see an alchemist.
And you may say to yourself “Self, my teeth have become shark-like, in the sense that they have all turned into sharks!” Good, now start punching them.
It's an important job, mark my words. There are people out there, many people who just don't understand why. They don't realize how important our job is. You will be challenged, you will be mocked, you will be insulted, but you cannot lose sight of the goal: your fist in a shark's face.
Several years ago, a former employee asked me “Why do we punch sharks?” You know what I said to him?
“Sir, do you hate science? Are you a science-hating shark-hugger? Do you approve of the non-science shark agenda?" He said no, he wasn't.
I punched him in the face anyway, because he was clearly a closet shark. Because that's what we fucking do at the SPC.
When you all came in here, there was a copy of Sun Tzu's The Art of Punching Sharks on your chair. You are all to have read that by the time you report in tomorrow morning. Now get out of here. Those sharks aren't going to punch themselves.
Because they don't have hands.