recursal/SCP-RECURSAL huggingface dataset:
Hail, holy Sophia, the messenger divinely-appointed
Of bronze, shining beneath virgin oil, God-anointed.
In the hand of the Lord you were taken as His lyre,
A sacred tool, to awaken in the nations holy desire.
Lament, O Asia! for you have given our sibyl death!
The chorus of a myriad sighs draws a single breath.
But fear not, O Asia! for the sibyl's precious dower
Renders the kingdom of heaven her pleasant bower.
The metalworker hones her craft, seeking perfection,
But what is there more perfect than your reflection
Caught in the gleaming silver on Demetrius's breast,
Upon whose authority your life was so cruelly wrest?
"Whore," is on the lips of every Mekhanite patriarch;
Atop pulpits, presbyters denounce you, "Heresiarch!"
Against you are all the worldly authorities arranged
With epistles and schemata to make hearts inflamed.
Yet unbreakable was your faith to the God Unbroken!
Fearlessly you prophesied to our nation now-chosen,
Persecuted as we are by neighbor and by magistrate,
With ceaseless patience we await our destined fate.
When we witness the craftsman of heaven and earth
Break open the firmament, to unleash unlimited mirth,
There shall be much weeping and gnashing of teeth
As all the slaves of the flesh howl savagely beneath.
Come, Christ Jesus, you who were of the Spirit born,
Descend with the Six Angels through heavens torn!
Hasten too Ezekiel who rides within the Lord's wheel
Toward the shrouded east for the architect of steel.
The architect's skill, and the Six Angels' supervision,
United with Jesus' will, and holy Sophia's precision,
Join as one to fulfill Christ Jesus' prophecy to raise
The third, infinite Temple of the Lord in three days.
And there in the house of the Lord I will surely dwell
With you, holy Sophia! How gladly my heart will swell!
For there is none upon the earth whose love is sweet
As the love of Wisdom, she who extinguishes all deceit.
“Mr. Krain?”
I turned around and stared at an unfamiliar face. This couldn't be happening; I needed more time. I stole the aluminum foil from the broken cabinet, grabbed the sweater that I repurposed into a bag, and made a dash for the fridge. All I just needed to grab now was the-
“Mr. Krain, this is a restricted area.”
I flung open the fridge and stuffed as many bottles of wine into my makeshift bag as it could fit. Now I just needed to get to the stall before they called for backup. I looked around the room for something to fend off the assailant as she raised a device to her mouth.
“Please send security to the storage room in the cafeteria. Connor has broken in and appears to be having an episode.”
I grabbed the empty knife block and chucked it at her head, knocking her out cold. I picked up my bag and made my way to the stall. I could already hear the patter of backup arriving at the storage room as I entered the bathroom and locked the door.
I was already onto my third bottle by the time the door started pounding. I had lined the stall with as much aluminum foil as I could, but I knew it wouldn't hold. I could only hope that I'd black out before a dangerous memory returned.
I was having trouble seeing by the time I heard them begin to drill through the door. “Stop, if you breach this room you'll risk coming in contact with an… an infohazard that c-”
“Mr. Krain, that's not a real thing. None of what you are scared about is real. Those are all just stories from when you were young. You were a writer once upon a time, and you wrote all these fantastical stories.”
“No, you don't understand. The amnestics… my memories are coming back. I need… I need to stop them.”
My vision was getting blurry and I couldn't stand, but they were almost through the door. I managed to gulp down one last mouthful before the door fell and they stormed the room. Five armed guards apprehended me while a woman watched from the doorway. I tried to speak, but the darkness swallowed up my vision.

Following a patient's third episode this month, staff have been reminded that under no circumstance are they to interact with a patient after curfew without the presence of two armed guards. Additional cameras have been installed in all staff rooms and corridors, and at least one security personnel will be monitoring them at all times. We thank you for your service.

- Senior Care Providers Nursing Home
Agent Ben Green's endured a quiet life. A routine - up, work, home, maybe unwind. Bed. Up. Repeat. A step above a recluse - not a hermit, or a miser. But somebody who found contentment in solitary.
Field Agents don't talk much about love or relationships. Even when they're attached, they don't talk about it. Nobody wants to jinx their happiness. The lucky go and retire and move on with their lives. But not everyone is lucky to enjoy that; most end up haunted in one way or another.
He found himself lucky, though. Not haunted, or aching for other. He never yearned for a companion in his youth, but now he found his centre. His home.
And tonight Agent Ben Green laid by himself, the moonlight filtering through his blinds. It was a full moon, bright and clear. His favourite sort of scene. Serene, lonesome. Maybe peaceful. Outside, the squeak as a rabbit was snapped by an owl. Quiet. The breeze carried the squeak away.
Idle thoughts and worries passed through his mind in the dark. Thoughts of his life, the Foundation, the future… Where could he go from here? Of course, once he found contentment and happiness, something was going to drive a wedge in it. Of fucking course that's how it has to be. That's how it usually is in this Foundation.
He put that out of his mind. More important things were happening.
“… tonight's a good night,” he sighed.
“Yeah.”
“… I hope we can have a few more like this.”
Green looked across his bedroom, to the chest of drawers, to the mirror hung behind it. He looked into his eyes, then over to his own, their fingers winding together.
They fell at first sight. A true spark. A connection, that nobody else could ever have. Or ever would, really.
“… the world is ending, you know,” his voice mused, squeezing tight.
“… Is it really though?” his own voice answered.
Green nestled into himself, and tried to forget the outside.
It had to be bad. Like, really bad. The director's voice was shaking when he called. He said something about "emergency medical extraction" before he hung up.
"You think this is some sort of containment breach?" Lambert asked her boss as Medical Unit 16 crept closer and closer to Site 19's west wing. It was her first month on the job. She was still quite green.
"Of course it's not," Mitchell replied. "There'd be alarms blaring all across the site. And they'd be calling in a full on task force. Not us."
"What if they're trying to be discreet?"
"That doesn't matter right now. All we know is that half of the west wing is knee deep in some sort of shit."
Lambert started going through possible scenarios. Maybe it was an attack from the inside. Maybe they couldn't trust the MTFs anymore. Maybe it was some sort of memetic anomaly that was most susceptible to people without medical expertise.
The unit approached the door to a senior scientist's office. Just before Mitchell opened it, the door swung out just far enough for a middle-aged man to pop his head out.
"Kondraki! Good to see you're—"
"Yeah yeah I'm fine. Just, did you bring everything?"
"Of course."
"Even the lube?"
Mitchell fumbled around in his backpack. "I mean… it took a while to find some but yes."
"And the pliers?"
Lambert jumped in. "What's going on?"
"I want to be clear. I had nothing to do with this. I mean, not this time anyway," Kondraki answered.
"Okay?"
"I'll let you tend to them then."
Kondraki opened the door the rest of the way. There were twelve men just looking at their crotches with a mixture of embarrassment and disappointment. As one normally would when one's dick is stuck in a water bottle.
"Wha—"
One of the men spoke up. "I mean, we were curious."
"There was that one power point and like… I just wanted to know what that was even like. I couldn't tell if it was arousing or painful," another added.
"You— you literally went against an O5 order for this," Mitchell responded.
"Yeah, but… like I could not tell they were serious."
"Is Gears ever kidding?"
"No, but like, it was just so stupid. So stupid we had to try it."
"That makes no sense!"
Lambert turned to Mitchell, whose face had gone pale. You couldn't blame him though. He was looking at a room full of his superiors with their dicks stuck in water bottles. And it was his job now to get them out.
"Can we— can we just get this over with?"
Mitchell swallowed. "Yeah. Yeah. I mean… yeah."
And Medical Unit 16 got to work.

Dear Sergeant Edward Mitchell,
I am writing to submit my official request for transfer from Medical Unit 16 to Medical Unit 27 based in Site 23.
I am requesting this transfer on the grounds of the incident that occurred on 05/21/2018 whereby our unit was instructed to extract the genitals of Site 19 personnel from Class-3 plastic liquid containment vessels. While this did warrant medical assistance, this sort of activity was not a part of the job description.
I would like to continue my service to the Foundation, albeit not in the presence of men whose dicks I have handled. Thus this request for transfer.
I hope you understand.
Sincerely, Sarah Lambert
by Captain Kirby

One-year-youngs don't understand hate. Don't get malice or violence. Evil won't be part of their vocabulary for another two years or so. They just see what's around them, and they take it in.
Six-year-youngs, on the other hand, do understand hate. They've developed enough to feel it. They know that churning deep down inside that comes over you, and the vision turns red and all you want to do is grab the kitchen knife and start slashing until the blood is everywhere. Then your heart beat slows down.
Thirty-year olds also understand hate, but they understand it better. They can live hate. Big hate, little hate, directed hate, universal hate. Contempt, disgust and revulsion too. From their own failures to the failures of others to vicarious failures, they have so many different reasons to hate.
However, six-year-youngs and thirty-year-olds can't get used to hate. They have to shout at each other and threaten each other and have one beat the other with their belt because "you don't talk back to me like that". And then after the shouting stops, both of them recognize that hate is not a normal thing.
One-year-youngs don't understand hate. But if you don't understand something, you can adapt to it. You can mistake it for something entirely normal. That hate is the way things are. That normal dinners consist of yelling and screaming. That on Friday nights daddy should come home with a slur. That every big sister has bruises across their backs and under their dresses.
One-year-youngs can smile, suck on their pacifier, and get used to hate.
And two years later, when the handcuff men take away mommy and daddy, and bring big sis to the orphanage, they'll find the three-year-old. They will hate it. And it will hate them right back with a smile. Because the hate will always be there for the three-year-old. To protect it from love.
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Consent Form 3436-A

(More from this author.)


I was one of them wives to never know what my husband did for a living. He worked for the US government I reckon, on some very private matters to be sure. It bothered me, but he never got sore when I asked him about his work, so I never got sore when he didn't have many answers. He would simply speak less and less until all that was left of a response was a furrowed brow and a look in his eyes that would have just as well been at a scared puppy.
"I'm sorry," he would say, his sigh heavy. "I really am. I am quiet 'cause I want'chya safe. 'Cause I envy your worldview."
People have shamed me. They've said, "She got what she'd always been asking for." But isn't a good judge of character what's most important for a woman? I would rather know well what kind of person my husband was and know nothing about what he did, than to know well of his job but wonder what character flaws I overlooked 'cause of it. Too many women make compromises with the salaries of their husbands…those are the ones I feel shame for.
The men in suits arrived just after I set the water on for tea and the dog barked defensively at the sound of knocking. I thanked him for his alertness and reassured him everything was fine. I opened the door and might as well have closed it right then, knowing well why they were there. They couldn't tell me what I wanted to know. They could only tell me one thing; Jim was someone to be very proud of.
My husband's secrecy outlived him, and I didn't sleep for more than an hour at a time. How did he pass? Was someone responsible? What was so important that he never told his wife of 23 years anything? Where are his remains? Could he still be alive somewhere, his death part of a ploy that'll end as abruptly as it began, his smiling face the next one behind a knock on my door? If I had known, could I have saved him?
That knock hasn't came. It has been twelve years. Twelve years. You can't fill a hole like this with years. Not twelve of them, and not fifty either I e'spect. I live on because no one would look after his dog if not for me. That dog is the only living thing besides myself who seems to remember my husband. He still trots over to Jim's side of the bed every morning, looking for him. I can't leave that dog alone. He is old now. We are both tired. When the good Lord takes him; I will ask to go the very next day, and if ever there was an answered prayer, that'll be it.
Please. Does anyone remember my husband? Where are his remains? Does anyone know, where did he work? Is there not anyone I can talk to?
What happened to my soulmate? Where is James Cohen Abernathy?

Human Resources: Records

+ Security Clearance Level 2

-  Access Granted: Class C/D Personnel Maintenance Consent Form 3436-A-027-JAbe

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Just a passing thought I had.
Edit: Also did an audio adaptation of it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ypj1aUXG9-M

▸ More by this Author ◂

{$comments2}

F.A.Q.

{$doesthisfixthebug}

Dear Ms. Jacobs,
It is with the deepest regret that I write to you today. Your son, Mickey, has been killed in action in the course of his duties under my command. The loss of a child is difficult for any parent. Yet you should know that Agent Mickey Jacobs was one of the finest men I ever commanded.
Mick was dutiful and kind; with an easy smile. A smile he professed on several occasions, he got from you. The impact that his loss has had on us can only be a fraction of that which you must now be experiencing.
His devotion to the principles of honor and self-sacrifice lived in every part of his life. And it was self-sacrifice of the highest order that led to his death. It is left to me, then, to provide my fullest devotion to the principle of honor, and it is that honor that demands from me a truthful retelling of the events which led to his passing.
First, in the interest of frankness: your son was not a security guard for a lumber company. Your son was a hero.
On August 18th of this year your son was stationed at one of our organization's facilities in South Alabama. A security breach occurred in one of our high risk sectors and your son was sent in as part of a team of individuals to stop the threat. Your son was at the front of a formation of 7 agents when an automated door sealed him inside the facility without his team.
With no support and spotty communication, your son made his way towards danger, providing fire support for the site's security staff on one of the lower levels. He was then tasked by the site director to rescue several of our research staff from the monsters that now roamed the site.
He was killed during the final rescue of these staff. Today a dozen of our best minds are still alive because of your son.
I cannot begin to understand the sorrow you must now feel, but know that your son's death was not in vain, and that he will be remembered by all those who knew him as a brave, dutiful, and honorable man.
Sincerely, and most remorsefully yours, Agent Jonathan Bradley

SITE-88'S INFOSEC AI HAS DETECTED AN ATTEMPT TO DISSEMINATE CLASSIFIED MATERIALS.
INTERCEPTING, REDIRECTING, AND REPLACING WITH INFOSEC APPROVED COVER STORY.
AGENT JONATHAN BRADLEY IS TO BE REPRIMANDED FOR THIS ATTEMPT.

Dear Ms. Jacobs,
Enclosed is the remainder of Mickey Jacob's severance pay. As you are listed as Mr. Jacob's emergency contact, we trust you to remit this payment to him in our stead.
It should be noted that despite Mr. Jacob's recent problems with drug addiction and sudden disappearance, we will be willing to provide rehabilitation services at any time should he return.
Thank you for your time.
Chief of Security Jonathan Bradley, Southern Crosscut Pines.
System. The Fifth Church started a pilgrimage directly into the Sun, and the Solar Occult Coalition is currently attempting to eliminate the Crab Pulsar. The primary cause behind this interstellar expansion was the destruction of Earth by SCP-094.

For close to 800 years, the Foundation has protected the world from a variety of anomalous threats. Secrecy went out the window by the late 2000s, but their principles remained the same throughout the centuries. As humanity grew closer to the stars, the Foundation began to manage threats across the entire Solar System. The Fifth Church started a pilgrimage directly into the Sun, and the Solar Occult Coalition is currently attempting to eliminate the Crab Pulsar.
The primary cause behind this interstellar expansion was the destruction of Earth by SCP-094.

When the sphere reached the size of a small village, the Foundation tried to hide it from the world, altering satellite images and quietly funding space programs to escape the Earth. When it could be seen from Buenos Aires, however, global focus was now on abandoning ship. Alliances between paranormal organizations were formed to utilize anomalous technologies to colonize and terraform Mars, moons of other planets, and anywhere else in the Solar System that could be made to support life. To this end, the goal was accomplished – but not before South and Central America were absorbed by the void. As billions fled to the final frontier, a black dot covered their tracks.
Humanity has now been living on foreign planets for a few hundred years. There were bigger issues to deal with, from the anomalous to the political to the logistical, than the state of the dying planet. When half of the Blue Marble was blackened, hardly anyone noticed; Titan's Got Talent had made its television debut the same night. Cultural ties had been lost many generations ago. The former residence of the entire human species was now as significant as Mercury. It was just another lifeless object orbiting around a ball of burning gas. Similarly, when a mere 10% of Earth remained, the only evidence of it was at the Foundation's yearly celebration of the successful evacuation of the Lunar Sites – the natural satellite was now free from its gravitational chains, given the lack of anything to orbit around.
And finally, on April 9th, 2690, as humanity's home for the hundreds of thousands of years died with a whimper, just one man watched it come to an end. Dr. Bright, the last man in the universe to have seen the Pacific Ocean, a snow-capped mountain range, or a clear blue sky, witnessed the remains of Earth be blotted out, removed from existence. A harbor for the human race that survived asteroids, solar flares, and, despite all odds, produced intelligent life capable of containing the anomalous, simply faded into the growing shadow.
Despite this tragedy, life went on. Over time, fewer and fewer people remembered that beyond the event horizon lay an abandoned planet - an abandoned home. It just wasn't relevant in the new world.
Humanity had not died in the darkness.
But the Earth was consumed by it.
It's not dangerous to spend time outside in the summer.
Clouds are always leering from the edge of the sky. Don't look at them. The sundown pond is so clean and white. The light slides cleanly across the surface, diffused and woozy. Reeds poke out around the lips of the earth, but we're paying no mind to them. Leaping into the water, a young man hurls himself from a mottled wooden dock. It craters underneath him and splashes hundreds of droplets into the air. He is my friend. Before he comes up, I'm leaping in myself.
I can see his body in the water.
Crashing through the surface, the bubbles feel like a bullet storm driving itself through my skin. Instantly numb, I open my eyes and for a moment I am blinded, the sheer cold compressing my shocked retinas. Dim light peeks from above me, distorted and swirling. Kicking upwards, there is a sheet of glass affixed before the surface.
I do not see any bodies in the water.
Ice is sharp and the wind is cold, struggling felt useless until it worked. Throat burning as cold air rushes in and hot puke boils out. If the dock wasn't here I would be sliding into the water, bloody reflective tile has no traction. Splintering wood digs into my skin. There's nobody breathing here with me. A motionless husk floats gently underneath some stained ice.
I do not recognize the body in the water.
Daylight has evaporated beneath a wave of clouds. The trees aren't growing anymore. Dead and rotting, there's snow piling up between them like barricades. Shivering is all that I know now. Closing my eyes so ice stops coming. It's being dead closer to me now. They all are.
I do not recognize the bodies in the water.
Even when the sun started shining again there was no getting out from under the cold. Crystals collect in my eyes every time I can't settle into my rest. Telling whether it's day or night isn't exercising thought. Knowing only what they know. Seeing through their eyes and wearing their skin squeezing out eyes and bones. There's holes water slows and flows through because it can't get more broken than this.
So many keep coming to look. They never recognize their bodies in the water.
It still rains in the sites, y'know?
Sure, it ain't the usual. The lightning always strikes warehouse five. The rain never really seems to hit'cha. But it still pours, it still thunders, it still rains.
There's still the scents, the aches, the pains. Iron, bloody scent, never washing out, always cuttin' through the petrichor. Probably why most folks stay inside. Easier not to smell.
There's still the drops clinging to the windows, illuminating the spotlights, slicking the guard dogs' coats as they whimper, rustin' the rifles, forever outstretched into the darkness. Probably why most folks close their blinds. Easier not to see.
There's still the rapping on the windows, on the roofs, lettin' itself be known, sloughing off the eaves like individual Niagaras. There's still the flowing through the gutters as the torrents are routed. Probably why most folks wear some headphones. Easier not to hear.
But it never rains down on us. Never rains down on me, y'know?
I ended up purchasin' a waterproof pad, a waterproof pen, and every time it starts, even though it ain't too often, I pack up my things and head out, just sit for a while. Still gotta work, still gotta write documents, but there's a… call. I couldn't tell ya what draws me to it. All I can tell ya is that I gotta smell it, gotta see it, gotta hear it.
The blood chokes you, the downpour blinds you, the thunder deafens you.
But you never get wet. I never get wet, y'know?
I never really get to go offsite, nobody ever really does anymore, but rumor has it that it follows ya wherever ya go. It's like the water bends around ya. 's funny. I've been to… lotta sites. Seen it happen with the snow, seen it happen with the hail. You name a precipitation, I've seen it. But they ain't the same.
Nothin's ever the same as the rain.
When… When I was a kid, I used to always run out. Even in the thunderstorms. There was the draw then too, y'know. To smell the fuckin' dirt smell. To see the drops wickin' off your skin. To feel the pitter-patter on your face, to close your eyes, to lose your tears in the rain.
I ain't a kid anymore. I got a job, got lives in my hands. Human race 'n all. But I still cry, I still cry in the rain.
I miss the dirt. I miss the feeling. I miss feeling… cleansed.
They say that the way
That the world will end
Is not with a bang, but a whimper
Or perhaps in frost
Or perhaps in flame
Or in some madman's fit of temper
What they don't understand
Is that endings are many
They've happened so often before
We've reset this world
A million times over
It's getting to be quite a bore
And each time we do it
We have to start over
Though we never quite do so from scratch
We decide what to keep
And what to get rid of
But some things they never quite catch
See, each time we do this
We're supposed to forget
Unless it all happens again
And so even though
"We've fixed our mistakes"
Aren't we doomed before we begin?
So some of us thought
"Let's make this a game"
We've got nothing better to do
We'll meet and keep score
Each time we reset
Should the changes we make, make it through
We each pick a thing
That shouldn't quite be
And slip it in at the start
It may be quite small
Or massively silly
But all of us have taken part
So when we rejoin
The next time it's all over
We discuss and then vote on the winner
It's not a huge prize
We just fix in our minds
In the reset we'll take them to dinner
The thing is I've realized
As we keep on going
And it does fill me with some distress
Is that each time we do it
It keeps getting worse
So are we to blame for this mess?
I think that this next time
I'll suggest that we lay off
And perhaps see if that puts it right
Though I am disappointed
I can't change "In the Beginning…"
To "It Was a Dark and Stormy Night…"
The sun prepares its farewell to the darkening sky.
A young mother wanders. She has borne her first children under a shining sun. She walks to get all the things they will ever need. She is oblivious to the clouds thickening.
Flash floods are not unknown in this area. The sky pours its soul into the earth until the earth cries out and can swallow no more.
The mother tries to escape. She knows it is no use. But she runs anyway. She is desperate. She knows there is more than merely her own life at risk. Her children. She hears their cry not with her ears but with her heart.
Her feet run through dirt and then mud and then water and then nothing at all. If the earth itself cannot withstand this assault, what chance does she have?
Her body is pummeled by the endless rain and mud until she cannot move, cannot breathe, cannot live. Her final thought is of her children.
I love you.
Forever.
The earth swallows her, then.

Forever is long, as she comes to learn.
She awakens to the sound of thunder, her body once again exposed to the very elements that entombed her. She moves her arm. She is not the same. This isn't right.
The mother is trapped between heaven and hell, between life and death. She feels the rain, once a pleasant companion, eat away at her very essence. She walks again, unsteady. She must return to her children. Her bones dissolve in the cruel downpour and she continues to walk. Her legs vanish and she continues to struggle. Finally she cries out once as the last drop washes her away.
One more dark and stormy night. Then another. Then another.
I will return to you.
Even if it takes me an eternity.
Fortunately for her, even eternity has an end.
The car sat just outside a warehouse pop-up art house at twilight. Windows up. Engine dead. Vents, shut.
In the driver's seat, a crack as the air heats to plasma, as a spark erupts from a finger. Radio bursting to life, static erupting, then silence. Then burning vegetative matter. Burning cannabis, extinguished next by lacrimal secretions. Another spark, more burning, put up to the lips, breathing in deeply. And just… holding it there.
Lungs burning, dying. A lap full of ash. A seat adjacent with once three now two pounds worth of cigars, hollowed, refilled. Blistered and raw fingers. Tropical smoke so hot it's boiling, so heavy it's enveloping.
And weeping, an exhale, a cough, choking.
"Time to die," thought the man. "Time to fucking die."
Outside, ozone, suffocating. Lightning striking twice, thrice, bodies electric, a bank of payphones desperately ringing, once, twice, eternally, screaming.
And in the art house, clothes lying, exhibits watching a gallery of hollowed suits static clinging to each other, emptied shoes, a cacophony of cellulars chiming in sync, deafening, booming through the steel enclosure.
The man, the man. Crying to himself in the car, letting the paper crumble to dust in his fingers before reaching over to another blunt.
There clinging amongst the towering green
Where humming the birds had gifted their seed
Clad in rainbow hues of effortless bloom
There our prize did shine forth beneath the moon
From far had we come to the rumored tree
To win for ourselves its glorious fruit
Tales had we heard of this sovereign fruit
Hidden so deep in the depths of the green
Drawing its power from light of the moon
Perfumes of Eden the breath of its bloom
For this was our quest to gather its seed
And to the world bring the gift of the tree
So then we stood at the base of the tree
Pondering how we could gather its fruit
So high up within the tangles of green
As well it might be as far as the moon
Then plans and then schemes in our minds did bloom
As coveted it we in root branch and seed
But that was not all that had taken seed
For creepers and vines surrounded the tree
And twined and wound all the way to the fruit
And so up we clambered into the green
To seize our prize in the light of the moon
We drank deeply the scent of Eden's bloom
And there in our breasts did desire bloom
Where a longing so strong had taken seed
And shot forth a bright shoot of hunger green
And so we devoured the blessed fruit
Took part in the sacrament of the tree
And were baptized in the light of the moon
So heard we the word beneath the bright moon
We all were apostles not yet in bloom
But we had been given the sacred seed
Would now carry forth the word of the tree
And from land to land spread the holy fruit
Impose on the world the will of the green
Then left we the green biding next full moon
When the gifted seed in our hearts will bloom
In the name of the tree shall we bear fruit
Date was… Dunno, January, '05. Location's some nowhere town's edge in New York. Time around 6 o'clock A.M.
Officer was writing up a ticket for the sixth illegally parked car in a row when they noticed a lotta footprints in the snow leading under a nearby bridge. Decided to take a look, found six kids. All of 'em just limp along the slope down to the river.
Backup arrived. Investigation started, a rookie detective happened to brush a kid. Witnesses report a snap, then down went the dick. Died instantly, snapped vertebrae.
Picked up the radio activity, called it in and drove over. Told 'em I was with the FBI, everyone needed to evacuate the scene. Backup arrived shortly. Scooped up each object into a containment box.
Standard procedure. Kids reported missing, detective KIA in a shooting accident, amnestics for the cops. Objects cataloged and shoved in storage.
Day after, got a letter on my desk. Opened it.
Told me they were the killer.
Told me how they lured every kid under that bridge before snapping their necks.
"Like candies."
Closed it.
Tossed it in my shredder. Nothin' since.
I clean messes up. I don't fuckin' solve 'em.
The site security teams stand side-by-side another in a straight line near the front gates of Site 87, the scorching sun reflecting off their helmets. Randal, the Chief of Security at Site 87, exits from Site 87 and gives a suspicious glance at the row of soldiers. His large figure and intimidating gaze was unnerving for some of the rookies among the crowd. Some thought of him as cool due to him getting a supposed scar from SCP-682 or whatever other Keter a rumor claims. Others just saw him as a force not to reckon with.
"Alright, I have a real simple question and I want real simple answers. As you all may know, hopefully, you were called here in regards to an incident." His eyes dart side to side dramatically. "Who killed Head Researcher Jamison?"
The row of soldiers look at one another nervously. Randall moves slightly closer to the group and continues to speak.
"Last night, Jamison was shot repeatedly and his arm was cut off during a staff party. Who did it?" He says as his scowl intensifies. "There are no anomalies contained on-site and definitely nothing breached into the facility."
"He did, sir!" exclaims a guard at the end of the row pointing at the opposite end. Randall and the guards turn their heads to see a mass of tentacles and blinking eyes whose body crudely fits into a guard uniform and happily wave a severed arm and pistol. Randall looks back towards the guard who spoke and says, "Son, that's just Richie. Also, he is barely of legal age to attend staff parties."
"What? S-sir, he is holding a severed arm-"
"Shut up" interrupts Randall, "I will not tolerate this intolerance. Come here." The guard walks up to Randall who delivers a mighty punch to the guard's stomach. "Now back to the subject."
The guard now lies on the floor in pain as a tentacle slithers around his ankle, dragging him towards the approaching eldritch mass of eyes and tentacles.
"Who did it?" Randall says once more while behind him Richie is tearing the guard's leg and shooting him. The other guards stare on at the scene, but are snapped back by Randall. "God dammit. Someone fucking killed Jamison and I will find out…" Randall says as he ignores the splattering of blood on him along with the screams.
"…One way or another."
I promise he won't feel anything.
…
I've done this tens of times before. Worst-case scenario, what happens to him today would've happened to him in six months. Definitely less painful for him this way, but if you were doing it for his sake you'd take him to Switzerland and let Dignitas take care of that, not me.
…
They wouldn't let you talk to him after he's dead, though.
…
Do you have everything you'll need for that, by the way? Cheek scrapes, blood samples…
…
That's good. You're a lot more committed than a lot of my clients; most of them don't realise what kind of person they have to be to keep their loved ones stuck on this planet for the rest of eternity.
…
It doesn't have to be, but I mean it as one. Trust me on that.
…
Not a problem. You're not paying me fifty grand for poor customer service.
…
You're paying me fifty grand for a mugging gone wrong.
There are two parts to keeping someone on this earth: making them restless in the first place and making sure they can't undo that before you're ready for them to. It's not going to be hard to keep myself anonymous if I get it over and done with quickly, and an armed robbery? Easily violent enough. Both parts taken care of in one fell swoop.
…
You said he likes jogging in Centennial Park, so that's where I'm going to do it.
Nice place. Going to be a pretty place to haunt, at least.
…
What do you think'll happen if I get found out?
Sure. Australia doesn't have capital punishment, so the state won't get me for mass murder. But everyone I've taken care of this way — all forty-seven of them — will have plenty of time to find out who I am, and what I had to do with them being the way they are now.
And unless I can break out, there's quite literally no way in Hell I'm going to be able to run from them.
…
But it's one you can trust. I'm not making you pay any extra, and it's going to last for a lot longer than a year.
…
Now, any last questions?
…
Don't tell your son you love him. He'll figure out you're lying soon enough.
"No, no, I meant my left, you imbecile, now the head is on backwards. I knew you'd be no help."
For the cultists of the Church of the Broken God, a long wait was over. After hundreds of years of painstakingly searching, they had collected all the pieces of their deity, and all that was left to do was to assemble Him. Clustered around a withered parchment, ancient instructions passed down through generations, they set to work.
"Okay, so we're looking for one of those little short screw things- no, not that one, that's the wrong shape, see? We want a crosshead one. No, that's a long one. No, that- what even is that?"
Approximately a week had passed since the final part, the very heart of Mekhane, He who was Broken, was located and returned to its rightful place. Yet, all that the assembled disciples of His Church had done was screw one of the legs together. It didn't quite look right.
"Well, we followed the manual, so why the hell are there six toes?"
Each part of the Broken God was piece by piece brought together, in dark, hidden places, filled with ancient magic and cosmic horror, ready for the construction and ascension of Him.
"No, no, this is definitely the right screw- Klööpe, that's the one- the hole just isn't big enough. Give me that drill."
"Aw, fuck."
"He doesn't need both of those, right?"
For the men, women, and other assorted cultists gathered, their entire lives had been spent in search of the parts of His body. This was the culmination of a life-long dream, and victory was so close they could almost taste it. None of them had quite realised how difficult it would be, however, to assemble a Supreme Being with only an allan key and a screwdriver.
"Where did you even get these instructions, oh Grand High Priest?"
"They came in the box, idiot. It's all flatpack these days."
"Oh."
It was hard, painful work. Sacrifice, blood and oil and sweat mixed in, all serving a single purpose, the reconstruction of the ultimate lifeform, the universe's most powerful being.
"Missing? It has to be here somewhere, have you checked the box again? You have? What about behind the desk, that's where we found the- no? What do you mean, 'replacement parts may take up to five weeks'? Bloody disgraceful."
Day and night, without rest, the disciples of the Broken God toiled away, slowly piecing their Creator together…
"Fuck this, I'm converting to Sarkicism."
Incident Report 3143-12.17

On 24/12/2017, a Foundation-operated bot (I/O-ISMETA) located a series of archived discussions pertaining to SCP-3143 across several defunct comic book enthusiast forums, totaling 49 posts. Prior to enactment of standard Foundation media alteration protocol 912-A ("TWILIGHT ZONE"), 7 relevant files were recovered.
These files are included below.

File 1
File 2
File 3
File 4
File 5
File 6
File 7

[REDACTED]

//Close %%/F#l

SCP-3043 played by…
A 1937 OLYMPIA ELITE TYPE-WRITER
SCP-2740 played by…
[REDACTED]
SCP-738 played by…
OLD SCRATCH
SCP-2548 played by…
PAMELA TANSER
SCP-3000 played by…
A GIANT EEL
Gordon played by…
HIMSELF
SCP-2747 played by…
The tribe was secluded. Nestled in the mountain range between the Black and Caspian seas, they kept quietly to themselves. Life could be difficult at times, food scare and the comfort of warmth absent for long stretches, but God kept them alive. It was the old man's turn to part ways and leave behind his memory. They were worried at first. Since he had lost his partner, he had been distant and clouded in thought, but his time had come even if she would never have the chance. He was their elder and the wisest of council, they could not lose what experience had gained him. If he was lost…
The trek was a long one. Three days and two nights with little rest during the most bitter of winter days. He could not keep pace in his old age, but they shared the burden of his old bones on their backs. As the sun touched the summit of the sky, they came to the cove. Torches in hand they bounded inside, eager to complete the ritual and return home, paying no mind sanctity.
The old man saw God and stumbled towards its warm flesh. Paces away, he stopped in awe of the creation. It was alive and well, but as the flickering beauty of its bark streamed light in the cave, its shadowy leaves shook. Closer he went, each step more labored than the last, it's leaves vanished and burst back into existence, splattering Godly ooze across the stone. Finally, he reached the trunk, with a wide grasp he embraced God, and tears streamed.
First came the string. For their union, a blue line was drawn to mark the day, and while the line faded and decayed with time, he remembered. He took the line and folded the piece again and again, knotting his fingers to one long passed.
Second was she. In perfect recreation, his woman assembled from dust to greet him. She was beautiful and young as she was in a time long passed. She smiled and took the line in her hands, binding herself to him once again. But even at this reunion, his tears never ceased. They watched with silent joy at the sight. All was right. His tears did not cease, and they shuddered at his pain.
Third was cruel. The creature was of straw and darkness. It could not be. The beastly soul was tall and slight, with a face carved from fear itself. One by one it flayed them, with malicious intent it drew blood from body wildly. Last left was he and his bride. She smiled at the end that was to come, and as he looked in her eyes he knew his pain was true. She was not the woman he knew, and neither was he. The beast broke him slowly, as only he could have wished.
Pain was all the beast knew, and all it wanted was to give. Where though, would it share it's knowledge? Far from this place, God had dreamed of others just as pained. All that was left was to greet them.
Did this for my youtubes just for fun, thought I'd throw it on here too for additional mockery.

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{$comments2}

F.A.Q.

{$doesthisfixthebug}

Locked up in containment, no trouble around
SCP-999 makes a sweet, soft, sound.
The doctors were listening and left wondering why,
He was singing a Christmas lullaby.
682 is growling, he won't go away,
But little 999, can keep him at bay.
One little orange blob can help us to stay safe,
Can make all the keters sit down and behave.
To all the Foundation's hardworking crew
To all the anomalies and dead gods too,
To all of the world in this joyous time,
Please have a Merry Christmas, from 999.
Oh so long ago,
When I first took shape,
I was alone in a sea of heat and chaos.
But I was warm.
I was safe.
Blank, shifting orange.
But no shape took form.
In those times, I knew not what I was.
but I felt curiosity in that comforting warmth,
So I wandered the orange.
For a long.
Long.
Time.
It was then that I noticed another.
A figure much like I.
But also.
Not.
Her name was Sauelsuesor.
And she was my sister.
Unlike me, she had opened her eyes
And for all the time I had been walking,
She had been watching.
And she showed me what she saw.
There were dead rocks and rings of dust.
Empty stars glowing distantly.
She said that there had been others.
Others like us.
The twinkling lights so far away…
She said that for a long time, she would talk with them.
That she would just pick a voice in the sea of many.
But she said that the voices began to grow quiet.
And that eventually, they were gone.
She says that now, all we see,
Are empty stars glowing distantly.
Long dead explosions slamming themselves against us.
From a destruction just beyond our twinkling skies.
But there was hope.
She said that she had protected us.
That she had protected them.
The worlds in front of us held defensively in her cupped hands.
I looked out and saw nothing but empty rocks
And a hopeless night.
That's when she showed me you.
A silent jewel of blue and green,
Life among the bleak stillbirth.
It was then when I laid eyes on you.
It was then that I was given purpose.
Now that I had awoken,
my sister left.
She descended, to watch over you.
To talk to you and give you hope.
She told me of all you did.
Some things good,
Some things bad.
But always, always beautiful.
Our single child,
Clasped firmly in our loving arms.

Trouble has finally washed upon our hidden shores.

And now.
I am reminded of all that.
Of your beauty.
Of all that you have done.
All you could have done.
I don't know everything.
But I know what I was meant to do.
What we were meant to do.
We are the last.
And fade quietly into that inky void, we shall not.
I am a Star of the Night Sky.
So watch me shine one final time.
Item #: SCP-079
Object Class: Explained

A photograph of SCP-079's keyboard.

Special Containment Procedures: SCP-079 is to be disconnected and all components archived in General Storage at Site-15. Personnel with a level 2 clearance or higher may request access to its components for the purpose of testing.
Description: SCP-079 is a Sorcerer-brand microcomputer built in 1978 by the Exidy gaming company. Its owner, Michael Kosniak, purchased and modified SCP-079 in 1981 to house a primitive version of a Type-1 AI. Kosniak's intention was for it to continuously improve and evolve over time.
Currently SCP-079 possesses a vastly limited memory span, only being able to recall the last 24 hours. SCP-079 also possesses a limited secondary memory card, capable of permanently remembering beings or things considered particularly important by SCP-079.

Addendum-2082/04/12:

SCP-079 holds an almost fabled place in the Foundation's history. Like SCP-682 and SCP-076-2 before it, 79 is a reminder of the Foundation's earlier days, of an organization of men and women standing in darkness to protect those living in the light.

But the world has changed. Our organization, once a few dozen sites spread haphazardly across five continents has changed into an organization that reaches across this solar system. We have a thousand sites across six planets, thousands more anomalies counted and contained, and half a billion humans, Yeren, and various extraterrestrial species in our employment.

Once upon a time, SCP-079 was seen as a legitimate threat to the continued normalcy and well-being of humanity. Today, its programming is outmatched by the one in my coffee machine. No further value can be gained from continuing its containment.

SCP-079 is available upon request to those wishing to examine it for scientific research, and for those who would wish to gaze upon our organization's humble beginnings.

Sincerely,

- O5-18.
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Dear Olivia,
I don't know why I ever started talking to you again. Our relationship was a failure. You were abusive, and I would put up with it. You always said you would change, I just needed to give you another chance, and I would, but you'd keep on reverting back to your old behavior. Ignoring me when you don't need me. Messaging me when you do.
That's why I left you. Can you blame me?
But now, five years later, here I am. Exchanging letters with you again, just like we did back in high school. You have changed, I think. You're just… so indescribably kind.
I'll never forget that night I met you— the real you.
There were fish falling from the sky. A romantic setting, I know. A giant catfish was about to hit my head when you pushed me away, concerned. And then you realized it was me, and I could see the guilt in your eyes.
That's a good sign, you know? Resentment for your actions. It was from that point that I realized you reinvented yourself.
Then another catfish fell and hit you right in the head, and we laughed together.
You hugged me that day, and I didn't realize how touch-starved I really had been.
Your warmth and your love just… enveloped me. I feel captivated— but in a good way.
I love you now.
So when you read this letter years from now, when I'm dead, I want you to remember that. I love you, and you've done great things.
The world has a place for you, it already brought us together with those two catfish. Maybe it was fate. Maybe the world just needed another sweet love story.
God, I could just go on and on…
I'll say it again.
I love you. Don't forget that. And maybe if you don't forget me, I won't have to leave.
- Yours sincerely, Taylor.

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