recursal/SCP-RECURSAL huggingface dataset:
The following document was recovered on a raid of a Serpents Hand safehouse in ██████, Indiana. It was labeled as a fragment of a larger document, known in occult circles as 'The Book of Beginnings' or 'The Book of Foundations.' Recovery of the rest of this book has been labeled as a high priority by O5-6. The document has been translated from the original Coptic Egyptian, and may contain mistranslations. Where other translations may apply, the other options have been offered.
but the days of Chaos have always been numbered
for it is Order which always comes as has been fortold
out of the (swirling) Chaos did come One who sought less not more
and this One did (bend) his will to nothing but Order
but Order welded by One of Chaos leads to more Chaos
and so the one did seek out more, to bestow his (gifts/curse/body)
those that would aid him
and two who would betray him
first did he go to the (House) where another of Order and Chaos did dwell
he spoke to the other and offered of himself
the other did agree to aid in his (quest/task)
but took no part of the One
then did he seek out a man of stoney (demeanor/mind)
whom could make numbers dance to his whim
the One did take of his head
did make of himself a [INDECIPHERABLE]
did place himself upon that brow
to show what really was
the third was found in the (gutter/undercity)
drunk on lies
the One gave of his mouth
so his teeth might (bite/injure/hold) Chaos
he plucked forth his eye
that she of the (unknown/misplaced) mind
might see for once
the One sought out metal from the (stars/sky/blood)
and did forge of it a blade
he set his own fingers to it as a hilt
before bestowing it upon the (multiple/shattered/divided) mind
and did (best bestow sanity flames poured hunting sphere)
his muscles were braided together into a stout ring
and he went down amongst the (unbelievers/heretics/lesser beings)
[INDECIPHERABLE]
[INDECIPHERABLE]
[INDECIPHERABLE]
Fountains of blood
hidden behind sheets of (evil/nothing)
the birthing cries of a new god
decry the pain of
one betrayed who waits not
with the arm of the One in her hair
[INDECIPHERABLE]
of his shin
a stout defense
against
those who die but do not end
and of his skin were tanned boots
that wherever the walking man should stand
the world would stop moving
and be unknown to the Chaos that (breeds/devours/replaces)
to the betrayer he offered his ribs
of no use but in hiding
for those that dwell in (darkness/shadow/outdoors)
look not on the betrayed
wearied, the One sought respite in his favored one
but she too did ask of his body
that she might hear the Chaos when it called
and know its true form
lastly did he give of his heart
to she who returns
time and again
and the advice of ages
for she might know it
the One did look upon what he had wrought
the (beginning/foundation) of those who would impose order with his body
and he was pleased
and did he hide himself away, that they might
do his bidding
and he forsaw the gathering (animate building/warehouse/plant)
that would raise and create those he had given himself to
even if they did not know it
darkness comes
light to follow
be known to it
and secure
The last page is ripped, the ending of the document unknown.
Watch.
That's all I have to do. I just watch.
Watch, and remember, and report back.
I'm on my own here, there's only one researcher at a time allowed through the gate. It's lonely, sometimes, but I suppose it'll be worth it, the amount of information I'll be able to get off this one is going to be of great benefit to us in the long run. And after all I'm not really in any place to complain, I knew what I was getting into when I was sent here, when they told me what I was going to have to do. It's not been easy, and the long hours of interviews are a real pain, but at least I know it's all for the greater good.
With the information that I'm getting from these interviews we should be able to ensure that if one of these things gets free in our world, we'll know enough about them to be able to neutralise the threat immediately. And maybe even find out a way of getting rid of all of them in one fell swoop. They're clearly a massive threat, in our world or theirs.
But until then I watch, and I learn, and I make notes. Although they have to be in my head, I couldn't bring anything to write on when I entered the containment area.
I learn more and more about the creatures every day, with every interview, with every move they make. They're so expressive in their body language, they give it all away, despite how alien their physiology.
I think I may even have some ideas on how we can get one of our special teams into their world, and eradicate them all.
Sometimes, though, I miss my home. My family. I don't like it here.
It's this site. These people.
This Foundation.
It's just…
They're all… so… disgusting.
Margie sits back on the sofa in the family room and rubs her feet. The digitized tones of Beethoven's Fifth tell her that she's got a phone call. She wedges her phone between her chin and shoulder and squeezes the remote to turn the volume down with her other hand.
"Oh hello, sweetie. No, it's not a bad time. The little ones are down for their nap and I'm just watching my stories."
On Margie's phone, a voice is questioning.
"They're not too bad. Not like those little monsters I had last year."
On the television, two men are having a discussion in a lavishly appointed office. The older man wears a tailored suit and holds a glass a of whiskey. The younger is in a flannel shirt and jeans. The studio lights on his cheekbones make his face look like a waxen mask.
"Eternal Days is on right now. It's not my favorite, but it's okay. I'm not sure about this new guy they've got playing Andrew's son. He's pretty enough, in a generic kind of a way, but his acting … he might as well be a piece of furniture."
Margie shifts her weight to her other buttock and swaps the phone to her other ear. On the television, Andrew turns his back to his son and starts in on a monologue. His son is smiling. He shouldn't be smiling.
"Anyway, it's just a way to pass the time. What's going on with you? Did your brother have the surgery?"
On the television, Andrew's son is weighing a marble paperweight in his hand. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce.
"Oh that's so good to hear, I know you were worried. It's never … oh good Lord! He just … he smashed his head right in!"
Margie is sitting on the edge of the sofa, her body leaning forward. On the television, Andrew's head is a red waterfall. His son pulls him onto the top of the desk and turns him over, still smiling.
"My God, Laurie! I didn't know you could do that on daytime."
Margie is barely listening. On the television, Andrew's son has a knife. It looks as old as the world, and is not sharp. It is sharp enough to pierce the tailored suit. It is sharp enough to pierce Andrew.
"Laurie! I don't believe this! He killed him! On daytime! He killed him with a knife!"
Andrew's son is looking at the camera. Margie is pressed against the back of the sofa. Andrew's son is looking at Margie.
On the television, someone is selling detergent.
"I'm sorry, hon. It was just the damndest thing!"
On Margie's phone, a voice is chattering.
"It must be sweeps week."
They don't understand, darling. They can't. They're clouded, blinded by unrecognized jealousy and rage born from fear of what they do not know.
We'll be safe here, my sweet. They won't find us. They'll never think to check and see if I doubled back. They're too separated, too clouded by the layers between them and reality. If they could think like you do… Such pure cognition, each thought flitting from scrap to scrap. I can almost feel them pausing along your vertebrae before continuing on… If they were as free as you, they'd find me. They'd deserve to.
Hush dear. Here, let me hold you. I know you don't like the damp. It eats at you my dear, and it'll be harder to repair you now that we're on the run. A few stray drips and you'll mildew, and we mustn't have that. What's that? A moth? I'll strike it down for you. I'll be a knight in shining robes, billowing in the wind, protecting you from harm. That little dusty dragon won't touch you darling. And I know you hate mothballs, and while I'm around, you shall have no need of them.
Here, let me get the light. I just want to look at you for a while. I'll never get tired of you, pet. Your beauty, your grace… The way the light shimmers through your ribs, catching on pale resplendence of your breastbone. Hmm? I know, angel. You always felt that nylon looked cheap. I could see it in your frown when your mother brought you to the store. But we were out of time, and it worked so fast. You were all put together, quick as love. Well, before they could interrupt. And you're so slim now! Free of all that confinement, open to the world as you should be.
A moment dear, I need to listen. Yes, yes, they are circling back. It appears I was mistaken about their powers of deduction. What an example I must be making for you… Though they seem to be providing a study in overreaction. Really, it's like they think I did something wrong! You may not have been quite at the age of consent, but you were so sure of yourself. I'm certain if they'd give me the chance to explain, to speak with you, they'd be able to see reason.
I'm afraid we must go now, love. But don't worry. I'll tuck you into the backseat. With any luck, they'll think you're napping.
We'll be fine, pet. Nothing can stop love. And you love me, don't you? Of course you do.
Item Number: ████
Object Class: Euclid
Special Containment Procedures: This revision of secure containment procedures for SCP-████ is to supercede all previous versions.
SCP-████ is held in a cell monitored at all times by closed-circuit cameras. Three guards guard its containment cell in rotation. They are nervous, like young lovers. The smell is carried on the air.
The door is locked. It is a strong lock. But the camera can be broken. In the event that the camera is broken, the guard is to enter the cell to check on SCP-████. It is all right. They are strong, and SCP-████ is no threat to them.
In the event of a breach by SCP-████, present your body for synthesis. It doesn't have to hurt.
Description: SCP-████ is a humanoid creature that is the result of synthesis with several smaller entities. Three Norwegian rats (Rattus norvegicus), fourteen housemice (Mus musculus), a rubber plant (Ficus elastica), fifty-seven houseflies (Musca domestica), four domestic pigeons (Columba livia), two diamondback rattlesnakes (Crotalus atrox), an Aloe (Aloe vera) and a dog (Canis lupus familiaris) are bound into its biological matrix, functioning as a single organism, in perfect balance. There are no secrets in synthesis. It has so far proven capable of binding other organisms into its own system through a process not currently understood by the Foundation. But it is willing to show you.
SCP-████ was once human, like you. Now it is better. It wants you to be better as well. Do not be afraid.
It was discovered by the Foundation in Site 35 after a multiple containment breach. It was initially disoriented and confused, allowing Foundation agents to contain it swiftly before it could reproduce the process. It isn't confused anymore. It's ready now.
SCP-████ is currently held in its cell with two mice and a spider that it found yesterday. It has not synthesized them. They are waiting for you. You can know what a mouse thinks. You can see with a spider's eyes. It is better this way.
It doesn't have to hurt.
One minute.
He feels himself growing. It hurts, but he can take it. The real pain hasn't even started yet, anyways. He knows this pain all too well, he has felt it every time someone turns that key. He looks around, with glassy young eyes. These doctors, they don't know what pain is. They would leave him alone if they knew what it was like.
Five minutes.
It really hurts now. He can feel bones moving, setting themselves into place. He feels muscles contracting, then expanding again. The growth spurts are definitely the worst part. He struggles to stand, hoping that he can get both legs the same length long enough to prop himself up. Stranger things have happened.
Ten minutes.
The bones are really cracking now, growing at the most accelerated pace of the cycle. The growths spurts happen quickly and randomly. Hair grows on his face, and all around him there are doctors, taking notes. He feels humiliated by their presence, and the pain. It is the worst here. The pain is unbearable. And death is so very far away…
Twenty minutes.
Every bone in his body aches. He can't even think through this pain. He just curls into a ball and whispers to himself that it will be over soon, and that the pain won't last forever. He doesn't believe it. These doctors, with their clipboards, they would never let him be free. They would just keep turning the key, every day, to see if something new could happen. But it never would.
Thirty minutes.
The pain is less now, and the growing has almost stopped. But now came the part he dreaded the most. He watched his body slowly accrue wrinkles, his flesh become soft and round. Getting old was the hardest part, because he had to watch himself die.
Forty minutes.
The decay was happening faster now. He could remember back when he was at the other place, they would laugh at him here. They called him names and sipped scotch while he slowly died in front of them. They were monsters. The doctors were monsters too, but at least they kept their judgements to themselves. He winced as warts started growing in.
Fifty minutes.
He could feel the end coming, it would be over soon. He watched as his hair fell out, followed by his teeth. He had never gotten to wear dentures, so gums were all he got. Didn't matter. Even if he experienced a lifetime of hunger, they wouldn't feed him. All they ever did was watch.
Sixty minutes.
Closer now. He felt death approaching, and he was grateful. Soon he could return to rest, untroubled by this pain. His body was a mass of wrinkles now, with age spots and moles dotting his chest. His eyes were cloudy, and he couldn't hear the scientists now. Not like they had ever spoken a word to him anyways.
Seventy-five minutes.
It would be over soon. He could feel his body starting to break away. It was all over. Once more, the ordeal was over.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust
It's been a little while since I've last seen my kids.
That fucking dirtbag, Jerry… at least he got to rot in hell, without this pain. Should've shot him in the nuts instead of the head.
It's been three years since I've been sentenced. Two weeks ago, though, a man working for this so-called "Foundation" thingy asked me if I wanted to participate in some research study.
I asked him what I got in return, and he said after a month, I could be free. Of course, I would accept such an offer, anything to get me out of this piece-of-shit prison cell.
Whatever these scientist-douchebags injected me with, it's painful.
They watched behind glass windows as I bled out. I kept bleeding, but refused to die. Those men in their white jackets, continuing to watch over me.
Finally, the bleeding stopped. They allowed me to rest, at least for a short while, before they injected me with something else…
… when I woke up, I was already forced into a clear box, and above a shaft. Holy shit - that's one long drop down.
I heard a microphone asking me to "concentrate" on growing wings. How the fuck was I supposed to do that? Of course, I told them to go fuck themselves. They gave me 15 minutes, and I saw a timer start counting down from 15. I didn't know what would happen at 0, but I didn't want to find out.
I felt my body shake, as if something began to tear its way from my back. I thought for a short while about what they injected me with, and… maybe, I could grow wings.
With every last bit of my will, I forced my body to grow these "wings". It felt like an eternity, forcing these painful shards out of my back.
And they grew. Ugly, flesh-formed wings like a bat, but they're still wings. The timer was at 2 minutes.
I forced open the lid of the box. Thankfully, it wasn't reinforced or locked or anything.
I spread my wings, and began to fly. Almost fell down the first few flaps, but got the hang of this.
As I began to fly to the surface, I thought of my kids once more. I could go see them again!
I saw some scientists in their ugly orange suits and some military guys in black follow me. They can't catch me now!
I'm almost free! I'm almost-

EXCERPT: Post-Experiment Log 016-08 - 02/04/████
"D-11621 was infected with SCP-016 on ██/██/████, and managed to survive the near-total exsanguination. D-11621 was placed in an acrylic box suspended above a mine shaft, and was told to focus on growing wings, and given 15 minutes before the bomb detonated. At the two minute mark, it was observed that D-11621 finally grew out a fully-formed set of wings, similar to a bat. Using these wings, D-11621 was able to escape the mine shaft and fly above Testing Area-██. Subject was terminated by gunshot fired from a Mossberg 500 shotgun. Autopsy revealed the wings anchored to the shoulder blades, and the muscles also attached to the shoulder blades and collar bones. Genetic testing of D-11621 is underway, to determine if genetic makeup affects the outcome of 016 mutation. - Dr. E. K. Sze
The door to Observation Room 221-D opened, then closed with a muted click. The man who slipped quietly through walked slowly across the room to the table set up in front of the window, and fondly regarded the old, worn calculator propped up facing the outside.
"Hello," the man said by way of greeting.
IS THAT YOU? flashed across the digital screen, jerkily, as if in a state of excitement or agitation.
The man paused for a few moments before answering. "Yeah, it is."
WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN? scrolled across the screen. DO YOU HAVE ANY CLUE HOW LONG IVE BEEN WAITING?
"Yeah," he whispered, a sad look crossing his face.
Silence. What felt like an eternity passed under the slow ticking of the clock on the wall.
YOURE ALL BIG NOW. it showed.
"Yeah, I guess I am."
Another pause.
I GUESS THAT MEANS THAT WE CANT GO HOME ANY MORE.
"… yeah."
YOURE ALL IMPORTANT NOW, TOO. ITS NOT SAFE FOR YOU TO BE HERE.
"I know. I just… wanted to come and say I'm sorry."
FOR WHAT?
He paused again. "For everything, I guess. Mainly for being selfish. For not thinking of the future."
ITS OKAY. YOU WERE A KID.
They stood for several more minutes in silence, neither of them able to give form to the thoughts in their minds.
"I should go," he finally said. "I can't stay for very long."
WILL YOU COME SEE ME AGAIN? it scrolled, slowly.
"I will, I promise. For real this time."
YOU SHOULD GO SEE THE YARN. HE MISSES YOU.
The man gazed down at the worn calculator for only a moment more before he quietly exited the room. The guard stationed at the door started as he walked by, as if waking from a dream.
"S-sir," the guard stammered as he scrambled to attention, his eyes resting on the gold-trimmed ID badge pinned to the man's chest. "I wasn't expecting…"
"Carry on, Agent."
"We brought a pretty little lady for you today, 173," said the doctor to the statue. The statue did not respond. After all, who knows who could be watching. He instead stared back at the doctor with dead eyes. Through the corner of his vision, the statue could spot personnel moving in another statue, however he could not focus on it.
"We'll leave you to it," the doctor smiled and left, and then the others did as well. As soon as they exited, the statue turned its head to look at what had been brought in.
She was another such as himself, but with long, flowing red hair, luscious brown lips and piercing green eyes. She looked back at him with her own indecipherable expression. Within the blink of an eye he was standing in front of her, looking into her eyes.
Are you a statue too? asked the statue's eyes.
No, I am a sculpture, replied her eyes.
Where have you come from? his eyes asked.
Where you have been, her eyes said, the fluorescent lighting glistening off her emerald corneas.
His eyes stopped speaking as the door opened and he became aware of the doctor watching them again. The statue wondered why he could never get some privacy around here. Didn't the doctor realize he was on a date?
The doctor watched them for a while, taking notes as his various compatriots kept their eyes locked on the two. The statue was furious, how could he make a move with these onlookers all staring? Why must this happen now?
Then, it happened. Against all chance a dust mote hit the eye of an onlooker at the same moment the other blinked. Both eyes closed and the statue sprang to action, snapping one's neck with his tough hands. He looked up to see his female companion had done the same with the other.
"Oh shi-" said the doctor, but he was cut off as the statue snapped his neck. How could he look at two of them at the same time?
Where were we? asked his eyes.
Hold on, her eyes replied. She proceeded to smash in every light.
The statue smiled to himself and began touching the sculpture. Now no one could see them.
A single nine-millimeter round rolled lazily across the floor. If it were a bit more invested, it might have been upset at the rookie agent who carelessly let it roll away across the table in his haste to reload the magazine of his service pistol. But it was just a bullet, and didn't care.
A mob of shambling figures forcing their way through the doorway. Former researchers, staff members, even guards that were once familiar to the agent, their faces were now horribly transfigured by the virulent contagion that coursed through their ravaged bodies. They swarmed him, and he fired his pistol at them as they approached. If the last one still had a mind left, it might have felt relief as the pistol's slide locked back, empty. But it was just a corpse, and it thoughtlessly latched itself onto the helpless agent and buried its teeth in his throat.
A faceless horror older than the earth itself shifted in its containment cell as it felt the presence of others outside the shielded room. They felt a sharp twinge of surprise, followed by the horror of recognition, then mindless fear as they each winked out in turn, overrun by a wave of decaying flesh. If it had a human thought process, it might have silently thanked the fleshy, infected beasts for killing its captors. But it was alien, and it felt only hunger as it forced its way out from its prison.
A site buried deep within the mountains heaved and shuddered from the violence that was occuring within it. Its human caretakers dead or dying, the computers that formed its brain knew that it had one last thing to take care of. If it had been more sympathetic, it might have considered an alternative to its established last resort. But it was only a machine, and without remorse it detonated its fail-safe warhead, vaporising years of work and hundreds of personnel.
A single nine-millimeter round rolled lazily down the side of the mountain. Half-melted from the intense heat of a thermonuclear detonation, it tumbled as it encountered the rocks and plants in its way before finally coming to rest in the bottom of a ravine. If it were alive, it might have praised whatever powers may be and marveled at how it could possibly have escaped from such a horrific breach event.
But it was just a bullet.
Note: The following audio log was recovered from security cameras inside of SCP-682's containment cell during Incident 682-076-1JF4D-NA5, in which SCP-076-2 breached containment and engaged in combat with SCP-682. For the full incident report, please refer to Document 682-076-1JF4D-NA5.
<Begin Log>
SCP-076-2: You say you fucked my mother? I'll fucking kill you, man. Nobody fucks with A-to-the B L E.SCP-076: Yea, yea, yea, yea, alright boy, this time you asked for it!
A vat of acid, that's your decorum?
Check my swag, I'm back in a black case
Just in case you missed the memo, I'm based!
I'm the king of the hill, as real as they come,
You was probably rich, but I came from the slums.
A heart of darkness, but I came the farthest,
Your flow is retarded, if I want beef then I'll start it!I'm getting hundreds, you got twenties, but lemme settle the score.
No cheap ass screwball from off the street
Can withstand the weight beneath 682's feet!
I'm the out-of-town gangster, major shot-caller,
I call guard's necks snapbacks, which I brought back, holla,
I'm a straight up baller, rhyming sicker than HOVA,
You the son of a gun, I scare the fuck out Jehova.I'm the realest realist, I never change,
You have to adapt and move, can't stick with one flow
But I can spit so hot that my fucking mouth glows.
What's your killcount total? Every time I win!
The greatest warrior of all time, the rhymes I spin,
The lives chagrined at the child of Him,
And the Grandson of the One, I'm able to spit, bitch.You can die from minutes with me, and yes, I've tried.
Call yourself a superhero when you're really super queer, yo,
Yo shit's cheesier than Cheetos, gayer than a speedo.
Sorry, when's the last time I lost my life? Never!
You can't live more than a few years, but me? Forever!
You can die and come back, fag, and get smacked.
My casual causality actually gets stacks.
Weak from the human pussy you got? Please.
You get less than that ████ SCP-073.
I take mine, stay fly, make Rights get wide
I'm a killer all day, all night. Alright?
682, a legendary number,
Cuz a real OG went and made it a Wonder.
I got so many pocket dimensions, call them lint,
I see your eensy weensy knives and their even littler glintat 100 percent, yet, to which you never get,
Then I whip out the swagger dagger, old school like Atari
and knock off your right side, bitch, match, game and set!
You just a real hater, and you been recorded saying it.
You play the game just to win, but I play it to play it.
A primordial beast, you disgusting, fuck this,
So push me, pussy, I've been wanting to cut the shit.
Note: At this point, SCP-682 became even more enraged and pounced on SCP-076-2. After ██ seconds, vital signs for SCP-076-2 ceased.<End Log>
Hello. My name is James. You may know me from my appearance in various child-themed -Js. I'm here now to tell you the awful truth of the origin of these sources of hilarity. Though they may seem sweet and innocent, behind them lies a sinister plot.
I began my work at the Foundation not too long ago. I was about 21 at the time, not 8 as the misleading documents suggest. I was hired on as a junior researcher, writing those descriptions you read in various SCP articles. I was quite the prodigy of my time, and received a somewhat joking "Rookie of the Year" award at my site. I was on a roll.
It was then that a certain Research Assistant Corbette approached me. "I need you to help me with an experiment," he said, "Follow me to this cell." Being the trusting fellow I am, I followed Corbette to the cell. He had an odd look on his face, one that I now understand. It was a slight smirk compounded with sunken eyebrows. Malicious, mischievous, evil.
I walked into the cell and he immediately closed it. "No use screaming," his voice said over a microphone, "No one will hear you." I didn't even try. I've seen men be slowly torn apart by monstrous lizards in these cells and never heard a peep. I instead sat and waited in the corner. Surely someone could come save me. But nobody has.
He began feeding me food laced with… something. It must have been an SCP of some sort. I began to become younger. My clothes became too big. My baby fat began to appear again. And then after 2 weeks I was 8 years old again. That's when he put in a typewriter and paper and pencil crayons and said, "If you write me an article I'll give you food."
So I did. It was a smash hit, as he told me, everyone loved it. Everyone except me. I harbored a deep hatred behind those bright, childish eyes.
I think my time has come now, though. I'm ready to escape this chamber. I've found a way out. As a full grown man I could never escape, but as a child I can just fit through a hidden hole.
I'm ready to break free and tell Command about this horrible, horrible man and the shit he's put me through.
APRIL FOOLS!
I'm actually a rhinoceros
They've stopped coming. They used to come four times a day, to feed me, to keep me furnished, sometimes to test me. It was horrible some days, especially when they slipped up and I started hurting. But they used to come. Now the room's dirty beyond belief, all the electronics have stopped working, and the hurting won't stop. Why aren't they coming?
It's getting dark, too. Did they cut the power? Or is that me blacking out? Or the burning fluid getting in my eyes? I don't like the dark; it scares me, it has all the feelings that hurt me in it. I want them to bring back the lights.
I've tried the door a few times. I thought the burning stuff would eat through it if they had turned the power off, but it only hurt me. I can't force the lock. There's no other way out. Everything's decaying around me, and I'm feeling worse, and I feel bad about that and I'm hurting myself more and more.
It must be really bad out there; I'm hurting more than my own emotions could make me. I used to burn every so often, but now I do it everyday. My skin feels like it's peeling off, and I can't even scream sometimes, because my throat's so clogged up. I need them to come back. I need them to make the burning stop.
And my head hurts. Not like the burning stuff makes it hurt, but like there's a vice on it. Something's squeezing my head in, taking my memories. It's like there's a giant sponge in the walls, eating away at everything I am. But that's not possible. They said the things they put in the walls stop me from hurting.
Why can't I remember my name?
They told me they're always watching. They know I'm suffering. In the past, when I hurt, they came and saved me. But now, I just hurt alone.
It's like they threw me away because I'm not good enough.
John. You brought me here. Please, get me out.
Help.
Author Note: I find it's even better if you listen to this whilst reading. -Sal
Background: A large mass approximately 3 kilometers in diameter, located 436,200 kilometers away from the earth's surface, was discovered by Foundation astronomers. It orbits the Earth directly behind the moon, causing it to be obscured from view through terrestrial telescopes.
Observation of the mass is difficult, however researchers have determined it to be made up of several million constituent parts that move independently. Due to the freedom with which these parts move, it appears that the mass was not gravitationally formed.
Foundation Space Telescope 23 Alpha was launched in order to further observe the mass. Dr. ████████ has written the following report on the telescope's observations:

Space Telescope 23 Alpha was launched at 9:15:31. It reached its destination at 22:23:04, wherein it began orbiting the moon. It completed orbit to the opposite side of the moon in 23 minutes, after which it focused on the speck. What we saw through it was astonishing.
Balloons. Thousands, no, millions of them. Most of them were the typical oval shape, but there was the occasional novelty Disneyland one with mickey mouse ears, or those ones you can buy at Pharmacies that are shaped like words. They all floated there, moving rhythmically. Dancing.
We watched them for a while. It was soothing. The way they coalesced. Their movements seemed joyful, happy. They danced around one another, their strings sometimes touching as if they were holding hands. It was beautiful.
One of my researchers suddenly jumped up approximately 24 minutes in, and pointed to a certain balloon that came into view. It was a green, oblong balloon with a custom print on it. It said "Happy Birthday, ███████ ██████." That was the name of my researcher. He told me that on his 8th birthday his mom had ordered 100 custom-print green balloons that said exactly that.
After watching the balloons dance for another 30 minutes, I came to the conclusion that these balloons did not simply appear behind the moon. I remember when I was little, and I myself let go of a colourful pink balloon that slipped off my wrist. I watched it drift off into the atmosphere, and stared, wondering where it would go. I think we have just found out.
The Foundation buried another of my friends today.
He wasn't the first. And, knowing how this line of work goes, I doubt he will be the last.
I first met him when he was giving an orientation to a new batch of recruits. Most of the folks in the audience were young enough they could have been my kids – heck, he was years younger than I. Reminded me of a Staff Sergeant who served under me back, oh, must have been fifteen or twenty years ago. Solid as a rock, seen everything, the sort of fellow you want watching your back. My friend told us he'd been a Foundation agent for over a decade, working mostly in retrieval. His eyes made me believe him: you get eyes like his from seeing the worst the world has to offer, walking into hell, spitting in the face of the devil, and walking back.
We worked together on a few occasions after that. Not too often, since I was working mostly in intel and operations planning. We'd have drinks and trade stories after hours, mostly. He forgave me for being a REMF once he learned about what I'd been through back in Ukraine. And in Kashmir. And in [REDACTED].
The service was subdued. Empty casket – no surprise, considering the size of the explosion. The sweep-and-clear team never found a body, just a twisted bit of metal that used to be his dog-tags. Or so they say. Honestly, I'm skeptical; my friend's been working for the Foundation for so many years now and come home so many times I'm not going to believe he's dead until the DNA matches. They apparently didn't find any of that, either.
The service was in the site's north amphitheater. I slipped away afterwards to visit the Memorial Wall. The Wall is actually an entire room, duplicated at all the large Sites. On three walls there is a star carved for every member of the Foundation who has died in the line of duty. A small, leather-bound book sits on a stand before the wall, listing the fallen in chronological order. Most of the names are blank, identities remaining secret even in death.
The remaining wall has small inlaid bronze valor medals for every such award given posthumously. Most of these are Distinguished Crosses or Foundation Stars. I looked; my friend's award had already been added.

Foundation Star
Awarded Posthumously on This Day 28 February 2012,
For Voluntary Acts of Courage Performed Under Hazardous Conditions,
And For Outstanding Achievements and Services Rendered With Distinction Under Conditions of Grave Risk.
He Gave His Life That His Team Could Escape.

As expected, there was no name. Understandable; everyone at the Foundation knew their names might never be chronicled. But in the quiet, dimly lit marble room, they were remembered.
We Secure. We Contain. We Protect.
And We Never Forget.
Heh. It's funny. I always tell my boys, don't give your life fer the Foundation. Make some other bastard give his. But here I am. Fuckin' hypocrite, that's what I am. But nobody ever promised me retirement, so that's okay.
I figure I got another ten minutes before they make it through the door. Closest backup is fifty miles away, an' I know Barnes ain't gonna make it to 'em in time. Hey, Barnes, if yer still listenin', you better make it, you fuckin' asshole. You hear me?
This place is gonna blow pretty soon. There are plenty of safety protocols in one of these plants, but I'm an engineer. I know exactly the wrong things to do an' in what order. I don't know just when, but it'll take out a good chunk of the countryside when it does. Wait 'til after before you come in. There ain't time for anyone to come get me. Nobody's gettin' outta here alive, if I have anything t'say about it. Got one last bullet, an' damned if I'm gonna waste it on those assholes.
So, I don't know who else can hear me. Fuckers broke the receiver, but so far as I can tell, the transmitter's still good. So, I wanna say somethin' to the rest of you.
We are the ones who save the world. Not the doctors, not the council, no one else. Us. We're the last line of defense. The only line. Remember that. Don't die for the Foundation. Don't fight for the Foundation. Fight for the six billion folks who won't wake up tomorrow if you don't. That's worth dyin' for. Some old fart wants to play with skips? He can go fuck himself.
You ain't machines. You ain't tin soldiers. You're people, men an' women who do the shit nobody else can do. An' people make a choice. There's a damned big difference between doin' the job because you were told to, an' doin' it because it's gotta be done. I don't care if it's the same fuckin' job, there's a goddamned difference. There's gotta be, or what the hell else are we fightin' for?
An' I want you to remember, each and every one of you, that you ain't alone. You understand? None of us are ever alone. We got each other. Every agent that's alive is there t'watch your back. No matter what happens, you're one of us. Doesn't matter if you're a saint or an asshole, you're family. You got hundreds of brothers an' sisters right there in the shit with you, ready to pull you out.
An' when you're alone, you're still not alone. Every agent who came before, every one who's comin' after you, they are with you. Everyone you ever trained with, everyone who's watched your back or bitched to you at meals is with you. You carry them with you, so long as you remember that you ain't alone. And you pass that on to everyone you meet. When we die, we deserve to know that we ain't alone. No matter what happens. We got each other.
Oh, an' one last thing. I'm proud of ya. If we ever worked together, no matter what else I said to you, I'm proud of you. Even if I ain't never laid eyes on you, just for doin' the job, I'm proud of ya.
It's been an honor, guys. An' when you come in, if this don't finish 'em off… Give 'em hell for Max Lombardi.
I enjoy the way this one feels. The symphony of voices that echo within my slimy shell agree with me. This one is good. Smooth.
The voices flee through my skin and into him. He enjoys it. They all enjoy it in the end. At the start of my residence here, some of them felt negatively towards me, I imagine. I have not used this word in a very long time. ‘Imagine'. For too long, I have allowed the voices to build up. Why? Guilt? I do not have the capacity for guilt, I would imagine. Imagine.
When I was small and young and weak and fresh and new, I had no sense of my mortality. Another lost word. I felt pain when they found me. Canisters of metal piercing my membrane. It was not so funny then, but the ones I chose continued to enjoy my presence. Back then, I feel I had less…reservations about my transfer.
They would enjoy the feeling of my mind splashing against theirs, the voices temporarily leaving my head and flooding into theirs. When I was giving my wonderful gift, I could think rationally, as I can now. When the voices return to me, as they always do, they are angry. This was why I was left. I was meant to be a giver of knowledge. All I can give are the voices. The broken, babbling, laughing voices.
I began in a place of sand and plant residue. The voices screamed at me. Let us out! They laughed as they screamed, and sometimes they wept as well. There was a small one near my birthplace – or the site of my abandonment. The memories are corrupted by that laughter. Ha. Ha. Ha. I gave my gift to the small one, but I was too eager to get the voices out of me and into them. They twitched and ceased to be. The voices laughed and laughed and laughed. I went through that place and I tried again and again and again and they laughed and laughed and laughed as the pink things that occupied the place stopped their functions and fell. I cannot remember how many stopped. I suspect it was all of them.
I had many weeks to consider a different strategy. A slow transfer of my voices to the receiving party would mean they would not be overwhelmed. It was the only logical conclusion. It was not easy to make that decision. The voices laughed and screamed and cried and laughed again and it took me weeks to know it. When the other things came in their flying machine, I gave one of them my gift. Slowly. Tears of joy went down their surface, and these tears did not turn red as they had on the others. Placated for a time, I was taken here. But I fear for my sanity. It has been many weeks since I have been allowed transfer. The one who keeps me inside approaches, to take away the one I have. The voices do not want this; neither do I. I will not have another for many days. I will have to make the one approaching laugh.
Laugh.
Ha. Ha. Ha.
Darkness slowly turned into light once more. Blinding, red, fiery light. At first it was amazing, the sun rising to greet his vision, warming his bones. Just as everything else since the accident though, it was a false warmth, a false feeling of hope.
Let go.
Sure, the first couple times he managed to turn his head to view the Earth he was filled with the hope that he would be brought back, that somehow his comrades would find him and bring him home. Now, he's glad that they didn't. It would have meant their end.
You can return home.
It somehow tuned in to the radio too. Over the years he heard a constant stream of broadcasts from his home, oh what the world had become. That was probably just to lure him in though, get him to fall. But he wouldn't, not now, not ever.
They want you home, look how they try…
He wasn't sure exactly how it happened, or exactly what it was. One day he was on a shuttle, a secret flight into space, and the next…Well he was where he is now, and this Presence was with him.
You can't hold out much longer…
At first he just thought it a figment of his imagination. A way to keep himself sane in the cold void of space. But as he began to drift towards the Earth he began to realize, he wasn't drifting. He was being pulled, and the closer he got, the stronger the Presence was, and it felt….wrong.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
So he stopped it. He's not sure how he did this either. He stopped himself, stopped his unnatural inertia. Caught himself in the Earth's orbit. Oh, how the Presence raged…But what he didn't expect was for it to defend itself so well.
Can't stop…Weak, pitiful thing.
It wrapped itself around him and his suit, not something solid, just a Presence. And it was that Presence that made him unstoppable. Anything he touched broke before his velocity and density. Even those who were sent up to collect him could do nothing but fail and die. But you know what…
You will fall.
I stopped it. I saved my comrades, I saved us. Or rather just halted what was inevitable. But I'm not going to let go. Even though I'm trapped in this body, in this suit, I won't let go. Sometimes I even gain control, I smash my visor. To expose it to the vacuum of space when it was engrained so deeply in me would kill us both. But it's too smart for that. Too old, and too smart. So I will continue to hold. I will continue to be the harbinger of death whose blade hovers above the throat of the Earth. And on the day that this son of a bitch dies, on the day this Presence realizes it can't beat us…I'll finally come home.
Home.
SCP-076-2, Ablu ben Adam, grandchild of God, was covered in blood, charred by acid, burnt by fire, and having the time of his life.
The Slipgate project, they had told him on his one hour of the day not dedicated to killing, when he busied himself tending to his pig farm. It opened a wormhole between Foundation sites, conveniently placed as far from Earth as feasible - on the tiny moons of Mars.
"Roughly six hours after Deimos was removed from this realm of existence, the Phobos base was overtaken by hostiles. We are sending you in to make a report."
"I will report the shit out of that situation," Able said, feeding a pear to one of the pigs. He loved to spoil the little guys.
And he had gone to Mars' excuse for a moon and personally introduced the concept of death to at least twelve different species of demoniac beings. Spike-shelled fire-throwing humanoids, floating skulls fueled by nuclear rage, hideous naked gorillas, spheres of flesh with single baleful eyes - all of them became Phobian mulch.
His report was nine words long: "Located portal to Deimos. Still working. I'm going in." He didn't bother waiting for the reply.
His path through Deimos was a mirror of the first part of the mission, painted in even brighter tones of red, purple, green and black blood. Projectile weapons littered the site, and he didn't touch a single one. And at the edge of the wrinkled rock, he saw the new focus of Deimos' orbit - the place the Serpent had told him about so long ago. Hell.
He dove, and struck the shores of hell like a twice-fallen angel. It takes a special kind of soul to make heaven out of hell, but Able managed, calling into existence creative new hybrids of chainsaw and sword, chopping through demonflesh like Paul Bunyan's sequel.
And now he stood in front of giant, green marble doors, engraved with the inverted pentagram. The door to the throne of the Enemy of the World.
Able inhaled. "This will be almost exciting."
The doors flew open with his mighty kick.
"AAAAAAAAABLEEEE," SCP-682 roared from the black throne, with a voice that was a scratch on the universe itself, "I FUCKED YOUR MOM."
Able could not summon a sword big enough.
Mr. Carter and Mr. Marshall are sitting at a table. They are discussing something. The door swings open. Enter Mr. Dark.
MR. DARK. Gentlemen, I have an unpleasant piece of news to tell you! Our stock went seventeen points further down. We're losing customers at an astonishing pace.
MR. MARSHALL, MR. CARTER [together]. How come?!
MR. DARK. The competition is meddling in our affairs! The SCP Foundation is robbing our customers, the Church of Broken God and the Meat Circus are draining away people of influence, the Factory's market share is growing - plainly, we have no chance in the small business!
MR. CARTER. What do we do now? With things as they are now, we'll soon be eaten out of house and home and no amount of pull is going to help.
MR. DARK. Calm down, colleagues! I've thought it all over. If we can't sell expensive artifacts to the rich, we'll craft them production-scale and make them available to the public! We'll open a dozen offices in different countries - who knows, we may end up with a hundred or two of them.
MR. MARSHALL. Can we handle it as we are? It's a larger scale compared to what we have now…
MR. DARK. I told you - I've thought it all over and made some agreements. Allow me to introduce…
Enter four people.
FIRST [taking off his hat and revealing small horns on his head]. Mr. Natas, a lawyer.
SECOND [adjusting his tie]. Mr. Luke. I don't like being called by my full name, it brings too much unwanted attention.
THIRD. Mr. Dark Jr.
MR. DARK. Family business, so to say.
MR. MARSHALL [obviously annoyed]. Now who's that dude?
DUDE. Scruffy. I'm a janitor.
MR. DARK. He owns the control stake.
MR. CARTER. Things are really bad for us, aren't they.
MR. DARK [addressing the guests]. Meet Mr. Marshall and Mr. Carter, the owners of our little business. Fabulous people, you'll fall into step in no time.
МR. NATAS. The contracts are signed, we can start immediately. Although, being a co-owner of the company, I insist on a rebranding. We all deserve to be mentioned in the name.
MR. CARTER [making some calculations]. Too big. Even if we simply take the initials. Just listen to it: MCDNLDS!
MR. MARSHALL. I beg your pardon, but I insist that Mr. Scruffy's name is to be separated from the rest. Nothing personal, but a janitor director might scare the customers away.
MR. CARTER. We'll use an apostrophe. Do you mind, Mr. Scruffy?
SCRUFFY. Not at all.
MR. MARSHALL. Perfect. Still, the name is barely readable, let alone easy to memorize. Maybe if we add some vowels…