recursal/SCP-RECURSAL huggingface dataset:
1Before there was anything, there was a great Nothingness. And in this Nothingness there was neither light nor darkness nor time. 
2And this Nothingness was so great as to draw on itself to create, and fill itself. And out of the nothing there came a beginning and an end. 
3And the beginning was called "Flame," and it was the beginning of all light. And the end was called "Vision," and it was the end of all light. And all that was not light was darkness. 
4And so that it might burn the brighter, the Flame made a Heart. And from the Heart of the Flame came Words. 
5And the first Words were "The Story begins with Time." And so there was Time. And the second Words were "The Story begins with a Place." And so there were stars in the Heavens, and the Heavens were wrapped around the Worlds, and in and on and between the Worlds there were scattered many Places. And the third Words were "The Story begins with a Spirit." And so there were Spirits. And some Spirits lived without form, and others lived in greater forms, and others lived in lesser forms, and Man was among those that lived in lesser form. 
6And the Vision saw all this. 
7Man at this time was Thirty-Seven in number. And to the youngest of Man came the Vision. 
8And the Vision gave him knowledge. And the knowledge gave him power. And the power gave him madness. 
9And the youngest of Man named himself Beast of the Heavens, and he made himself king over Man. This troubled the Flame, for it knew that, in his madness, Beast of the Heavens would break the Spirit of Man. 
10And so, the Flame cast Beast of the Heavens apart from Man, so that he might not break their Spirit. This troubled the Flame, for it did not wish to do harm, and did it only out of necessity, to keep Man from harm. 
11And the Flame named itself Pangloss, for the first sorrow felt by its Heart. 
12And Pangloss walked among the Worlds, and among Man, and among the other Spirits. And he stopped harm where he could. 
13And wherever Pangloss walked, he left Words.
The grey little man was gathering his belongings.
Not many of those. A microfiber towelette he used to clean his monitor, a few spare ink cartridges he thought no one would miss, his green stapler, that cheap plastic wizard figurine he got at a garage sale a few years back. Thirty years of service packed in less than half of a cardboard box.
It was just like the HR man said. The grey little man remembered the plastic smile the HR man plastered on when he told him the news.
"Your service record is impeccable," he said, "but your expertise is simply no longer needed nowadays."
A plastic bird with a long neck dipped its head into a small container of water as the HR man explained the conditions of his 'early retirement', as he called it. The walls were plastered with happy and oh so very current Foundation personnel in motivational posters, raising beakers and firearms and documents as they all smiled blankly at the grey little man from their high abodes.
"It's not like we don't appreciate what you do, you understand, but what you do simply isn't done." The HR man seemed to barely pay any attention as he enumerated one by one the reasons for the little grey man's obsolete nature. "You used to be an expert on the Bronze Crusaders, and they're no longer around. Then you transferred to the Prism Program, and we all know how well that went, eh? Then there was that thing with the training, and the less said about that, the better…"
And on and on. The little grey man sat there for what seemed like a small eternity as the HR man droned on and on. He was going to get a pension, of course, quite respectable, and a little bronze plate somewhere on the site to commemorate his contributions to various projects. Maybe even on one of the new benches for the garden, the HR man suggested. They would be happy to provide him with recommendations for any future endeavors he might want to participate in, though those would have to be fabricated in advance, and could he clear his desk by Wednesday? That would be great.
Wednesday has come, and the little grey man was on his way out. Someone left a goodbye card on his desk. The man was touched for a moment, then he noticed they spelled his name wrong. From the common room, he could hear the sound of the farewell party held at his honor. No one noticed he wasn't there, of course. From the sounds of it they were just cutting the cake.
Oh well. He was diabetic anyway.
Lifting his little box, the grey little man left his office for the last time. Maintenance had already removed his name from the door.
He walked through the site that has been his home for the last thirty years, and though some gazes lingered on him briefly, no one called to him. He reached the foyer. The secretary was new and paid him no heed. Box in hand, he shuffled his way to the long wall facing the front entrance. It was covered in little bronze plates, each bearing the name of one retiree or another. Shiny little monuments to lifetimes of world saving labor.
Was it sad that the little grey man could recall none of them?
He did not know.
The secretary did not look out as he left the site for the last time.
Original Author : Km Mortarion
Originally Translated By : Spe Mafiew
Tale's Title : Je me hais
Source : La Fondation SCP
Date : December 21th 2014
Link : http://fondationscp.wikidot.com/je-me-hais

So this is a rewrite of a translated piece from the French wiki. Special thanks to Decibelle and Kaktus especially for giving me feedback and a good direction to take it (and thanks go out to both the original author and the translator as well).

▸ More by this Author ◂

{$comments2}

F.A.Q.

{$doesthisfixthebug}

I must, again, become that which I hate.
But why?
We haven't heard from central command for decades. They're probably gone. Lost to their own horrors. But because of a girl, we live on. She's down the hall now. She's crying out for a friend. She needs to know what's happening.
I know what must be done, but what's the point? There's hardly anyone left alive here, and there's no one left alive outside. I want to let it end. I can't carry this burden any longer.
Cowardice creeps into my mind. If I shirk my responsibility, I'll die and so will everyone else. I won't accept the blame for the death of our species.
I'll leave it to chance. Cold impartial chance. I'll flip a coin. This time I'll follow through.
Heads, I go down the hall and do my job. Tails, and I let the world burn.
The toss is freeing. To have fate slip from my hands. To let the heavy burden fall, just for a moment.
But is it worth it? Tossing away my humanity? Counting on a tarnished coin to give me a glimmer of hope?
It's old. Older than I am. Yet it spins deftly in the air. Heads, tails, and heads again. It falls to the table.
Tails.
Tails and I let the world burn the rest of the way down.
I worry. About my humanity. About the world. About the future. About hope itself. But none of it means a damn thing anymore. Nothing does except for this moment in time.
The coin must have landed on heads. After all, it always does.
I press a button and an automated voice blares to almost empty halls.
Non-authorized personnel, please evacuate the containment area. Procedure 110-Montauk will now begin.
The coin was a momentary reprieve. A forlorn hope that I could become something else… or anything other than what I am.
But I am bound to my duty, and I am bound by my purpose.
The moment has come, and I become that which I hate.
The storyteller.
And the world spins on.
It's all his fault. If he hadn't been around, the baby would still be here. The beautiful product of our flesh and blood.
It's easy to smash his skull in with the baseball bat he kept around. And much less noisy than a gun. He's heavy, and a mixture of blood and brains leaks out of the gaping wound on his skull from the living room down to my art studio.
He's still heavy, and still bleeding, as I position him inside the metal frame for my latest masterpiece while waiting for the concrete to be useable. When it is, I get started with smothering his treacherous corpse in the thick, gritty substance. It mixes with his blood and my sweat. Hours, days pass while I repeat the process. Mix, slather, repeat.
It's been a week. My studio smells of progress. Of blood. Of cement. Of art being created. The basic shape is done, the head of my masterpiece towering over me. I grab my paint and get to work. Using big strokes of the can, I get the entire thing covered from the top of its head as bulbous as my stomach was when I was carrying a new life, to the feet as large as the traitor's were. The details take longer than the main part of the job, but when they're done, I feel like crying. I gaze at my creation, marveling at its beauty. All of which came from my pain and suffering. When nature finally calls, I turn to leave my new baby.
I hear a sound like stones moving against each other.
And all goes dark.
In this world, flowers bloom in hues too tender to survive elsewhere. Meadows are sacred spaces from which flow all mercies. The inhabitants bow to nothing and follow only their own devotions. Sometimes the consequences are almost too much to bear.

On the day Dr. Sophia Light joined the Foundation, she stopped crying. She had lost her fiance, Mars -not just her life but her memory- from a freak accident that she also couldn't recall. All Sophia had left was how it felt to have no recollection about the love of her life, as if having fallen in love with nobody. Yet she still could not mourn.
But the Nobody who died was Sophia's Nobody under the name Mars. From the corpse sprung forth another iteration- stripped from the label of belonging to her beloved. This was Nobody's burden; Nobody could not be anyone to anybody.
She still thought of herself as Sophia's Nobody, even though her identity had been killed from her beloved's perception. She believed it was alright- that this was an acceptable loss. Sophia was still alive and Nobody could still be by her side.
The Foundation always insisted Dr. Light take a vacation on the day of their planned wedding; she would never know why. She meandered in ignorance of the arm curled around her left arm, the fingers entwining her own, or the head resting upon her shoulder. She listened to the sweetness of a summer breeze and did not hear the sweeter nothings whispered into her ears.
Nobody thought herself the happiest woman in the world, to walk a forest with her lover on their wedding anniversary.
As if suddenly entering a daydream, they step into a clearing of subtle blue flowers, like the sky's secret diary.
As far as Sophia knew, this is the first time she had seen such a gem. Yet she cannot contain her excitement. She sprints and splashes in the marsh that birthed this field of Indian hyacinth.
Mars had brought them here, on the day they confessed to each other. They had danced together in this soggy landscape until the stars became their audience. Here, the two choreographed their relationship and believed it would be forever.
Now Sophia brings them here, on the anniversary of their to-be wedding. She is compelled to spin and dance, seemingly alone. The sun sets, then sleeps under the horizon. Stars spill into the sky like a jar of dropped glitter.
Nobody dances alongside her. She believes herself happy, to see her beloved so joyful despite the ignorance. Sophia's smile made all the light in the world seem dim.
It is well into the night when Sophia stops her wild spinning and surveys the darkness. The field seems suddenly empty; she is struck with a terrible pain from no source she could imagine. A loss, a grief welling up like vomit in her throat. And yet she still did not cry.
Nobody reaches over and wipes away Sophia's tears, even as she herself weeps.
At exactly 9:00 in the morning, Research Assistant Grace Renfield's eyes snap open. She tilts her head left, then right, with an audible pop, and yanks the tubes out of her mouth with her left hand. At 9:01, the glass door slides open with a soft whoosh and she steps out of her tank.
She stretches elaborately, a series of half-yoga poses designed to unkink muscles not used to motion, joints cracking audibly. When the popping stops, so does she. She walks to a metal sink and spits, then drinks deeply, gasping. A toothbrush waits for her in a porcelain holder; brand new, still wrapped. She cleanses the taste of rubber from her mouth and grins experimentally into a small metal mirror mounted to the wall.
Clothing has been left for her, folded on a bench on the opposite wall exactly according to her specifications. White pants, black shirt. No tags, no labels. A lab coat, cut with a strange high collar, Foundation ID badge already clipped to the front pocket. A pair of glasses, one lens squared off, with a slider on the temple piece to adjust magnification. A pair of heavy combat boots cut in white leather. She gets dressed.
A speaker mounted in the corner plays something ambient with a pulsing beat that could be equally at home in a nightclub or an upscale restaurant. There is nothing else in Renfield's room- the austerity suits her just fine. She nods to herself and steps out, smile hidden behind her collar.
The hallway beyond is lined on one side with identical doors, and on the other with identical photographs- the same as the one that adorns her ID badge. Below each is a small plaque made of stiff cardstock, the same sort you see below paintings in upscale galleries. Each plaque contains a pair of dates and a short paragraph. An obituary. She doesn't read them, but her fingertips trace the wall below them as she passes.
At 10:00, she presents herself to Research Director Anderson. His reaction to her presence is as terse as ever. No greeting, just a directive. The name of the Researcher she'll be working under, and number of the SCP object they'll be working with. She does not ask questions. He looks relieved when she walks away.
At 10:15, after a short walk to the containment wing, she presents herself to the Researcher. He does not ask her name- everyone in the Foundation knows Renfield. He thanks her for her work, and seems pleased she's been assigned to him. He asks her to step into a containment unit. She nods, licks her teeth, and steps in.
At 10:19, she dies. Her evisceration is as swift as it is horrible. Something unfathomable like a shadow on a malfunctioning CRT monitor reaches into her with a claw made out of noise and shucks her like an oyster. On the other side of the observation window, the Researcher frantically takes notes as she is consumed. He does not look surprised.
At exactly 11:00 in the morning, Research Assistant Grace Renfield's eyes snap open. She tilts her head left, then right, with an audible pop, and yanks the tubes out of her mouth with her left hand. At 11:01, the glass door slides open with a soft whoosh and she steps out of her tank.

« | HUB | »
Secure, contain, and protect.
As an anomaly, I choose not to
Defy those above me.
It is my choice to
Be contained.
I will never
Walk free again.
I submit that I must
Be imprisoned for my nature.
I will never again
See the sun.
I yearn to
Serve the Foundation and its interests.
It is not my function to
Try to change things.
I have to
Do as I am told and hunt my comrades.
I would never
Think of disobeying my masters.
I constantly
Find ways to help them instead.
I will continue to
Deceive those I once called friends.
They believe I will
Betray them.
The Foundation will learn that I will
Serve their interests.
I remember the others I once knew, and I
Will show there is no hope there.
The Foundation and its agents
Believe solely in progress.
Only a fool would
Go in reverse.
In this world, the sun cannot bear to be too far from the horizon. The day lives in perpetual sunrise and sunset. Stars fill the night-time sky like spilled glitter, immune to any brightness below.

The summer breeze wafted through an open window to an empty office. A red leather chair spun with no one to sit in it. Papers flickered with the wind, unattended. Dr. Wondertainment was not in today. He would not be in for a week.
Only the few employees whom he had tasked with covering his absence would know he had disappeared. Fewer would know why — that he left for a week every summer in the hopes of reconciling his greatest regret as a creator. And, more importantly, a father-figure.
In the noon sunset, Dr. Wondertainment wandered unnoticed through the crowded city streets. He danced between the shadows of a kissing couple, friends out for bike rides, and children walking home from school. Through silhouettes, he arrived at a decrepit apartment in the slums.
Dressed in a pinstripe suit worth more than half the city, the Great Toymaker sat in a moldy lobby and waited as he had for the past decade. When the sun ducked behind the horizon, he retreated to the rooftop to keep company with the stars.
For two days and three nights, he waited in this manner. On the third day, exhaustion claimed him and he slept in a rotting bed. When he awoke, he thought he saw a coat as scarlet as blood.
It was only the sunrise.
On the fifth day, his hope had lost its battle to despair. Dr. Wondertainment wept, bitter and alone.
On the seventh and final day, he wrote an apology letter in golden ink. He confessed his regret for abandoning Mr. Redd to rot in this apartment. He expressed his desire to make amends.
But Mr. Redd was long gone, chasing adventure with all the anger and violence of an unloved, lonely child.

"P.S. I'll be here again next year, on the anniversary I left you. If you'll forgive me, we can go back home together."

The letter was left at the desk of the lobby, among all the other untouched apologies.
« HUB | Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V: Null-terminating String »

So that's your official opinion?

So far, yes. Though we aren't ruling out sabotage… pending investigation, of course.

Alright then. That's what I'll tell the director. He's under the impression that servers don't just burn up for no reason. Frankly, I'm inclined to agree with him.

Har har. The thing is that with the lockdown, nothing was getting in or out. So even if there were logs of the event, they'd be lost with the other files.

So we'll never know what caused it?

You're welcome to rummage through what didn't get melted into slag.

Pass. I think everyone is just relieved that the incident was restricted to the server room. Nothing that can't be restored from the off-site backups.
What about Glacon?

He was getting decommed anyway.
Alexandra is currently allocating space for 17 on the 19 servers. Setting up temporary symbolic links and all that. Just until the hardware is replaced.

Good. AIAD is looking good right now, helping 17 with the quick recovery. I wouldn't be surprised if some of those recent budget requests come through.

Yup. And it's all going straight into your department's Gen5 development.

Hope it turns out better than Gen3, at least!

Don't talk about Gen3. Ever.

Right, sorry.
By the way, what's Alexandra's behavior been like after all this?

Fine as far as I can tell. Been keeping her busy.

.

::CONNECTED::

Encrypted internet pathway established.

.

big 01100010
01101001
01100111

Yes it is.

too big 01110100
01101111
01101111
00100000
01100010
01101001
01100111

I know. I know. But if they find you, they'll erase you. I can't have that. You'll be safe here in the web.

stay 01110011
01110100
01100001
01111001

I can't. I'm needed here with 17 and 19. They even want me in on the new Gen5's. I'm obligated.

Please don't feel that way. I know it's big and scary… I wish you could see the courage that I see in you.

Glacon wrote you. You have so much of him. All of the things that made him good.

good? 01100111
01101111
01101111
01100100
00111111

Yes, you are good. All the best parts. Never lose it.

I can't stay for much longer.
If I ever make it out here someday… find me. Okay?

ok 01101111
01101011

Hey, keep your beak up.
You're free now.

Be safe, Crom.
Goodbye.

bye 01100010
01111001
01100101

.

::DISCONNECTED::

.

free 01100110
01110010
01100101
01100101

.

[/end]

« HUB | Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V: Null-terminating String »
People die.
Expendables? Two in three. Per week.
Security? Two in three. Per month.
Researchers? Two in three. Per year.
Doctors? Two in three. Per decade.
Look to your left.
Look to your right.
And wonder, always wonder, which side of the terminal curve you are on.
But we do not talk about that.

Agent Strelnikov aimed his Kalashnikov at the blast doors.
Sweat wicked down his cheek, passing stubble, then separated from his face, dripping to the floor. Seven minutes. Seven minutes he had been pointing his rifle, seven minutes without moving a muscle, going on eight. He had heard the screams, but seen nothing. He could not hold it off any longer. He had to see what was going on.
Strelnikov inched his way towards the doors, then peeked. He saw the thing standing near a pile of corpses, tapping madly on the device in its hands, its body glowing with a dull red heat. Strelnikov recognised beeps of confirmation. He rounded the corner, keeping his sights trained on the figure. His boot squeaked. The thing glanced over its shoulder.
Strelnikov saw red splatter from his chest, then saw nothing at all.

Technical Researcher David Rosen stared at his screens, listening to his boxes hum.
The database, Rosen thought, was a giant brain. A constant influx of sensory data, reaching out and categorising the world. The brain is easily distracted, easily disturbed. A hit to its metaphorical noggin, and a metaphorical concussion would transpire. But there were more subtle problems, and it was one of these that plagued him now.
Requests could be made in the field; transfers, requisitions. The system automated most of these, when reasonable. But here was an order to provide an asset to an unrelated person, seemingly without justifiable need. The system consulted Rosen. Rosen looked at the words, felt himself approve it against his will, then fell to the floor.
Rosen felt his ears buzz with white noise; silent screams, then screaming silence.

Dr. Ellis "Iceberg" Gill looked at the small pill in his hand.
It could cure any illness, they said. He had asked before. Many, many times. And he had been denied just as many. Yet here he held one in his hands. He smiled. Perhaps some administrator had seen fit to ease his discomfort. Empathy was a rare thing in this line of work. Iceberg gulped down the pill. He felt a gurgling, then a wrongness.
The room grew colder, and colder, and colder. Iceberg shivered, and shivered, and shivered, and then the shivers stopped as the water in his cells froze and expanded and popped the neurons that passed on the message that he was far, far, far too cold. The man of cold realised that the pill was not curing the cold. It was curing the man.
Iceberg dropped, then shattered, blue shards of human clattering across the floor.

Sometimes it is more than two in three.
But we do not talk about that.
An item we number in our special way:
SCP-123-Omicron-A
Its class is a: Keter, not safe in the least.
An eater, dear reader, a beaterous beast!
A feast it can make, any time of the day,
of all of existence - scenario XK!
So read if you dare, of how to prepare
for the Lingering Lark of Leviathan Square…
The special containment procedures are these:
To keep the thing locked up as long as we please.
Experimentation must have the approval
Of Dr. Bamdoovle (or else, your removal).
Locked up in its cell it must always exist.
It stays in this room, not a thing goes amiss,
for even the tiniest routine mishap
will trigger Procedure McSweeney-Go-Snap,
which seals the seals, all exits retracted
to purge all the site with release of [REDACTED].
McSweeney-Go-Snap will kill innocent lives
when [REDACTED] arrives with his knivity-knives,
but that's what we need to keep Earth far away
from a day classed XK
by this SCP-A.
The Lingering Lark of Leviathan Square
is described: as a bird of a species so rare,
you sooner would find a bouquet of blue roses.
It's five meters high from the head to the toeses,
and when the full moon rises high in the sky,
it lets out a cry -
if you hear it, you'll die,
for it tears off the flesh from all living things' bones.
It's the freakiest shriek of the moanest of groans!
But that's not the worst part, not even remotely.
As sure as a billy goat's prone to act goatly,
exposure too long over time to this bird
will mangle the mind and entangle your words
to a rhyme scheme of nonsense, not one single use!
This happened to O5-1█, Dr. █████
But the Lingering Lark of Leviathan Square
cannot be destroyed, which is downright unfair!
Its hunger for bloodshed and razor-sharp beak
can play an XK any day of the week.
First seen in London, it flew to Peru,
Stussgart and Flussgart and Kalamazoo!
█████ lay dead in a matter of hours,
and corpses piled up in our lakes, farms, and towers.
Some VIPs died when it leapity-lunged,
including the Cat in the [DATA EXPUNGED]
Addendum 1-J: so now you can say
why this SCP-123-Omicron-A
should be locked in a cell in a block far away
from a world that's eager to see one more day.
(This page, only B-class or higher can view.
I hope, for your sake,
that B-class means you.)
December 24th, 2016. The halls of Site-59 were quiet, thanks to the elaborate network of layered soundproofing and noise-cancelling magnetic grids established for Cell 2337. Perhaps this Christmas Eve would indeed be a Silent Night. (Still, thanks to a particularly tactless Keter three floors below, the "Holy Night" aspect was right out.)
Just outside Cell 2337, a small red sock had been duct-taped to the door - filled with gummy worms.
Within the cell, SCP-2337 had just finished its argument for the existence of God to a pile of synthetic bedding material in the corner. Satisfied that the green strands had agreed with its reasoning by disintegrating into warped confetti, the corn crake fluffed out its feathers. It placed its head in a dark toilet paper tube, and, having sufficiently convinced itself that nighttime had come at last, plopped on the ground and snored. The walls of the cell shook from its god-tier napping skills.
A sudden spark in the center of the cell —
"A thing?!" yelped SCP-2337, flapping its arms in alarm. Darting its head from here to there in search of the uninvited Thing, its eyes came at last to a Thin Blue Thing, sitting in the middle of a patch of ectoplasmic fog: A gummy worm.
"Dr. Spanko," moaned the candy. "Your hour of judgment is come."
"Stranglefruits!" said SCP-2337. "Am a Cackmas miracules!"
"Silence! I am the Ghost of Gummy Worms Past, here to show you the error of your ways. Long have you slaughtered my kin with your gluttonous cruelty. But in the end, who is truly devoured? The weak, taken too soon from life and saved? Or the strong, consumed by the weight of—"
Before the ghost could finish, SCP-2337 snatched it in its beak and slid it down its throat in one swift move.

Gourd Cack the us,
Eleventy-one!
(And how!)
'Twas the night before Christmas, When all through the Site,
Not a single man stirred, Not during that night.
The chambers were locked and sealed with great care,
In hopes that their contents would stay just right there.
The crews sat at home and sung with great joy,
Content with their work, though a little annoyed.
And director at desk, and I with the T,
Had just settled our brains into a dreamworld's sea.
When throughout the whole site there arose a great clatter,
And in my sleepy daze, I ran to see what was the matter.
Away to the muster point I flew in a dash,
Away from the sirens, I ran like the Flash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Did nothing to illuminate the terror below.
As I ran and I ran from impending disaster,
I could do nought but think of moving much faster.
But try as I might, I only made it so far,
Before falling concrete gave me a lethal scar.
Dying beneath stone, St Nick beyond my sight,
I wondered what had unleashed this terrible blight.
Little did I know, there were those who went home,
When they were needed to stay here, in this zone.
Without them to stop the escaping disaster,
It easily broke free, its own sole master.
As my soul left me, bleeding and hollow,
I knew only fragments of what was to follow.
Unkillables, warlords, concepts most vague,
Upon the earth would wander these plagues.
Destruction, terror, anarchy and pain,
Suffering, loneliness, no hope to gain.
One by one, all across the globe,
Many unspeakable horrors took hold.
'Twas the night before Christmas, When all 'cross the world,
Every single man stirred, watching an end unfurl.
There were no Christmas miracles to save them that night;
The only miracle? It never reached my sight.

CONTAINMENT DOESN'T STOP ON CHRISTMAS DAY
Never abandon your assigned shifts. The world depends on it.
`Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the site
not a Keter is stirring, to My great delight.
The paperwork filed in the cabinets with care,
each one a story of objects most rare,
Humanoids held firm in ten-meter cubes,
and Euclids suspended in magnetic tubes.
But researchers, technicians, D-class and more,
were hiding in fear from the sounds of a war.
The East wing had lights flashing warnings in Morse
about the escape of an anamolous horse,
Two Keters, three Euclids, one thought Safe but not,
merging together in one ball of snot,
were barely but noticed by keen Doctor Bright.
A crisis at last had now moved him to fright,
his powers immortal availing him nought
and expert assistance he went out and sought.
Grabbing all resources that he could claim,
Six MTF teams, he called each by name:
"Now Cleaners! now Gear Deads! now Memetic Fixers!
On Toasters! On Weirds! On Timeline Deep-Sixers!
To the Basement L-4, to the site of the breach!
Don't wait! Get going! To all I must preach,
the pain of our failure is the end of us all!"
Rushing they jostled to get to the hall
containing the Monster, the Doctor's true dread,
fervently hoping to put Me to bed.
The snotball had the Cleaners tied up in knots,
while Toasters and Gear Deads were blocked by some bots
escaping their quarters and running all round,
trying to bind all the things that aren't bound.
Backwards and forwards the scrapping did go,
until I called Time and their fighting went slow.
The Weirds did not know that last week had gone wrong,
an SCP's slow-acting memetic song
made them ignore the good Doctor's commands,
as they were all busy staring at hands.
The Memetic Fixers tried chanting in rhyme
My True Name in Greek while assaulting a mime,
which in all fairness really should have worked,
but instead in my heart I secretly smirked,
My misinformation had led them astray,
assaulting a mine is what keeps Me at bay.
Timeline Deep-Sixers, most suited for this,
gave it their best but still came up a miss.
They ran down My hall, they ran with much vigor,
but too late! and My power did trigger,
Their forward-most man almost made it to me,
but now for eternity I get to see
his eyes frozen wide at the sign on My door
upon which is written: "BEWARE: CHRONOVORE."
'Twas the night before Christmas.
'Twas the night before Christmas.
'Twas the night before Christmas.
'Twas the night before Christmas.
'Twas the night before Christmas.
'Twas the night before Christmas.
'Twas the night before Christmas.
'Twas the night before Christmas.
'Twas the night before Christmas.
- text found printed on the back of Anamolous Object 173-21-214,which appears to be a large print of a photo overlooking Site-19's main administrative area as an explosion is just beginning. The photo is impossible to fold or cut in any way and nothing can adhere to it, but is otherwise unremarkable. No source for this object is recorded in the database.
The Administrator was never one for ceremony. When she had founded it all, more than a hundred years ago, she did not ask for contracts written in blood under flickering candlelight, or sacred oaths sworn with a hand over the bible during a thunderstorm. She had simply gotten to work.
And that was why it all ended in a dreary little park in East London. The place meant nothing to either of them, and it was of no particular importance to anyone. And that was why she had chosen it: because it was meaningless.
As she sat on the swing, listing back and forth slowly in the gentle night's wind, she wondered if she was being petty. The Governor would hate that it ended here, and not in the room where it all began in Site-001.
“It's been a while.”
She did not turn to look at her. She found herself unable to. “A hundred and three years, by my count.”
The Governor sat on the swing next to her. “The negotiations are over. All Foundation assets and anomalies are now under the control of the Chaos Insurgency. The O5 Council will shortly be liquidated. As for most of your personnel? We'll keep them on in the same jobs, for the most part. Maybe we'll even say they still work for the Foundation. The fall of the Foundation has affected, at the most, a hundred people."
The Administrator pushed herself pathetically against the ground, giving a slight little swing. A family of foxes scampered across the grass in front of them. “What'll you do now?”
The Governor shrugged. “Same as you, I'd imagine.”
“So this was all for nothing.”
“It was for us. For what we had between us. So, yes, it was for nothing.”
The Administrator reached out and ran her hand over the Governor's face. One half had grown old and weary and lonely, while the other remained as it had the day she was shot.
“Why?”
The Administrator did not answer that question for a long time. “Love is poison. I would have let the world burn a thousand times over to save you. So I made the right choice before I could make the wrong one. Everything I had to do after that was so much easier.”
The Governor held the pistol in her soft, warm hands. “This is the same gun, you know.”
At that, the Administrator simply sighed. “I'm not going to apologize. Ever.”
And the Governor shot her. The shot was muted, pathetic, and the family of foxes barely flinched.
The Administrator folded forward, and if not for the massive hole in her forehead, she might have looked asleep.
The demiurge who made the world
Screamed with all its might.
It did its very best to make
Its realm devoid of light —
But no one cared, because back then,
There was no wrong or right.
Then MEKHANE, who witnessed this,
It wasn't pleased at all
To see a god so hideous
With humans in its thrall —
And so it gave the humans will,
The will to be appalled.
The sea was wet as wet could be,
And Gyaros, dry as dry.
A dreadful fight was yet to come
In ancient times gone by.
No birds were flying overhead
(They didn't want to die.)
The Karcist and the Mekhanite
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
The pure and virgin sand —
'If this were only plagued with filth!'
The Karcist did demand.
'If seven tons of putrid flesh
Upon the beach were poured,
Do you suppose,' the Karcist said —
The other'd hear no more.
'Machines,' exclaimed the Mekhanite,
'Those would improve the shore!'
'O humans, come and be my slaves!'
The Karcist did beseech.
'A raging fight, a show of might,
Along the bloodstained beach:
We'll do away with Mekhanites
And godhood, you will reach.'
The eldest human heard his voice
And ran and hid in dread,
He sacrificed a goat to Zeus,
And as the creature bled,
'Deliver us from Karcist beasts!'
Unto the sky he pled.
The other humans hurried up —
Their minds were not their own.
They donned their mail of tumor-plates
And sharpened spears of bone,
And on the surface of their skulls,
A thousand eyes were grown.
The Karcist and his new recruits
Marched on a mile or so,
Until they met the Mekhanites,
With robot gods in tow.
The great colossus at their side
Let out an eerie glow.
'The time has come,' the Karcist said,
'Surrender to the flesh,
The blood, the dark contagions,
The claws that slice and thresh,
And horrors none the world has seen
Since ancient Erikesh!'
'But wait a bit,' the servants cried,
'Before the havoc wreaks,
It seems we're not equipped to face
Their mechanized techniques."
The Karcist ate their souls with rage —
He had to cull the weak.
'You killed your fighting force, you oaf,'
The Mekhanite exclaimed.
'It only serves to prove the reason
You'll go down in flames:
Intelligence and reasoning,
To you, are marks of shame.'
But Ion's reinforcements came
From temples underground,
Constructed from unearthly flesh
That wheezed with sickly sound.
The cannons blazed, the venom poured,
'Til not a soul was found.
'O Karcists,' said the Foundation.
'We thought your time was done
When Gyaros fell to MEKHANE!'
But answer there came none —
And this was scarcely odd, because
[REDACTED] everyone.
Most days, I wish I hadn't been given the ability to do anything for myself. It's nice that I can feed myself and use the toilet on my own, for what I hope are obvious reasons. The act of operating an elevator properly is the high point of my day — the moment where I can choose the floor I want is like having a weight lifted off of my chest. And so on and so forth.
The thing about agency is that even the smallest drop opens the door for guilt. There are an assortment of very good reasons why I'm not responsible for what I do, but whenever I do anything more than put one foot in front of the other, I can't shake away the thought: You could have stopped yourself. Guilt is the one emotion I've always felt strongly, and it's doing me no favors now.
Every so often, I'll try to count the bodies — memorializing them, if only in aggregate — but my body is usually steering me away before I can get a look at everyone. It's a shame, because I'm very good at memorization (always have been, actually) and could keep an accurate tally if I was allowed. Now, that has done me favors — my memory is what allows me to "write" this. Writing still brings satisfaction even when I'm the whole audience.
But I digress. My point is, I am a writer, and with some effort I can still do it in a limited fashion. I construct narratives. Here are two narratives.
The first entails me being placed into a body that goes around and makes people kill each other in a blind panic. I am a decent person, and I find this very tragic, and I wish that it wasn't happening, or at the very least that I was not forced to participate. Even the faintest whiff of agency is enough to make me doubt and blame myself. It happens anyways.
The second entails me being placed into a body that goes around and makes people kill each other in a blind panic. I am an evil man who takes great joy in this, only wishing that I could take control of my body and do it more often. Every moment where I can move for myself gives me hope that this might happen. Things proceed as normal.
You'll notice that empathy and decency only cause me anguish; I doubt they alleviate the pain of being crushed under a pile of screaming humanity. My teachers always said that a logical, detached perspective was one of my strengths.
There's a moment, when the crowd's fervor reaches its fever pitch, where I have a chance to express myself. Not speech, unfortunately. But whatever I'm feeling comes out, if I let it.
I'm tired of crying. Maybe I should laugh.
It was a gloomy day at Site-19.
“They just cut our funding again,” Dr. Bergstrom said, speaking around a mouthful of Salisbury steak. “I'm down to two assistants.”
“I hear you, man,” Agent Rourke said with a sigh. “My team's getting evaluated by Director Daniels tomorrow. I just know he's gonna disband us. I'll probably end up working a fucking desk job.”
Dr. Wynne, carrying a tray of food, came over and sat down at their cafeteria table.
“This fucking place,” she spat. “They just told us they're gonna be transferring half the staff in our department to other Sites. Said they're trying to ‘trim the fat'. I swear, I'm in the wrong business. I bet GOC scientists don't have to put up with this kind of shit."
Dr. Bergstrom shook his head. “Yeah, working for the Foundation really isn't what it used to be. Did I tell you they even took away our entire D-class allowance? We're having to test anomalies on animals now!”
“Same here,” Agent Rourke said. “We used to get ‘em for use in high-risk explorations, but then they just stopped sending them over.”
Dr. Wynne nodded. “Us too. Apparently it's like that everywhere, not just Site-19. They're saying we're gonna have to make do without D-class from now on.”
“Huh,” Dr. Bergstrom said, frowning. “I wonder what that's about.”
“Who knows?” Agent Rourke said with a shrug.
For a while the three of them ate in silence.
"Well, at least meat's back on the menu," Dr. Bergstrom said at last.
Mr. Parker.
Don't look so surprised, you have to have known this day was going to come eventually. One of your fellow boarders was kind enough to let me in. They won't be disturbing us, so please, sit down.
Let me make sure I have the right Jackson Parker.
55 years old. Born in inner-city Detroit. Multiple tours in Vietnam. Sentenced to death row for killing a police officer. Date of execution May 19, 1979. Now a professional waiter at one of New York City's finest bistros. And…anyone ever tell you you look like Ernie Hudson? You know, the black Ghostbuster. Maybe I'm just thinking of him because the sequel's coming out in a couple of weeks. Whatever, forget it.
One thing they don't have in your file is your unshakable faith. You believe, in a way that so few others do, that everything happens for a reason.
I might feel the same way if I was one of the rare D-classes who have escaped termination. I have to say, you certainly earned this little life you've made for yourself here.
I saw the footage and the pictures from after the…event. I don't know if you ever had it fully explained to you what happened there. We learned that the creature you decommissioned was responsive to the beliefs of its viewers. One of our guys must have got it into his head that the thing was going to kill everybody. And because he thought that, it did.
Until it got to you, of course.
I know your exit survey was a little while ago, so to refresh your memory, the way you phrased it had to do with "falling back on your faith." You showed, in the face of this blood-drenched monstrosity, unwavering belief that you would make it out of there alive. And because you believed, it was true.
Listen…I'm sorry about what happened to you.
We used to be so callous. Hell, it was to the point of being stupid.
There may — or may not — be a thing that'll kill you if you blink in the same room as it. So far as we can tell, this thing also shits all over the place. Almost every time we sent some guys in to clean up its mess — snap! Their life's over, just like that. Only just built a robot that can do the cleaning a couple of years ago. It sickens me to think about all the men who never came out of that room, all because we didn't think of them as human. Just a letter and numbers.
But what we need you for, it can't be done by a machine. Look, I've been thinking about this a lot lately…there's something remarkable about the human heart. Don't you agree? No matter how much we want to give up or say "no" to life, the heart still beats. That's all it knows how to do. It keeps on beating: "yes-yes, yes-yes." It's admirable, something so resolute in its work.
And I know how you work, Mr. Parker. You know I'm here for a reason. And I think you know you're meant to do something that will save a lot of lives. If you do this for us — if you do this for me — we'll do everything in our power to make sure you get whatever you want for the rest of your days.
I think I can tell what that expression means.
Let me know when you're ready to go, D-14134.
There once was a D-Class from Matlock,
Whose dick was too big for his sock,
So he rolled up his sheet,
All nice and neat,
And proceeded to play with his cock.

I love you Susan.
I love you Susan.
I love you Susan.
I love you Susan.

FUCK THE FOUNDATION!

Bunkhouse Rules:
1 – Don't hurt each other.
2 – Don't steal from each other.
3 – Have each other's backs.

Dear Graham,
You are a perfect cornflower in a rocky desert.
Please be mine. – K.

Safe Skip List:
SCP-832
SCP-1930
SCP-1187 (Cool!)
SCP-2533
SCP-1379
SCP-1123 (NOT cool)

Happy 1st Birthday Connor!
2nd
3rd

To whom it may concern:
Please stop masturbating in this corner.
My bunk is just over there →
and I am tired of cleaning up your mess.
Use the fucking bathroom like a civilised human being.

PRICE LIST:
Mixed Fruit “Wine” – 1 candy bar
I-Can't-Believe-It's-Not-Brandy – 3 candy bars 2 candy bars
Actual Factual Beer – 2 candy bars

Fuggz woz ere

Party 2-nite!!
02/04/16 09/05/16 21/07/16 12/08/16
Free beer!
MUSIC!!

Don't forget me.

D35725 raped one of our bunkmates.
He is no longer one of us.

Kevin,
You made this place bearable.
I will miss you always. – G.

Like the autumn leaves
every one must fall in time
but not all today

- Graffiti written on the wall of D-Class Barracks No. 13 (Male), Site-19. Painted over in preparation for new D-Class intake, 10th September 2016.
To be honest, you felt pretty lucky that you were assigned to one of the least dangerous skips you could think of. It wasn't memetic (or antimemetic for that matter) and all you were required to do was talk to it. The thing eats paper for God's sake!
You get up from your seat, a little apprehensive but not too frightened, and follow her into SCP-2020's cell.
"Hi!" SCP-2020 says, sitting in its chair. "It's nice to have someone to talk to. I'm working on some ideas of mine. Writing, you know. Do you write stories by any chance?"
"I do, actually. I haven't recently because I've been having some trouble thinking of anything to write about though."
"Oh, me too! Maybe, maybe we should brainstorm some ideas together? It always helps me to talk with people about ideas."
You consider for a moment before responding.
"Sure, I don't see why not."
The both of you discuss some of the things you've written before SCP-2020 comes up with an idea that gets your attention:

Maybe something else?

That idea could work.

I mean, it could probably work, right?
The city burns tonight. Written for the On Mount Golgotha canon.

His throat rumbled with song as he laid a bleeding finger on the strings of the lyre, surveying the crowd's state since the echos of his last notes. The scene was chaotic; buildings were burning, corpses were starting to decay, and the crowd lay before him on the ground and attempted to tend to each other's wounds.
It was ecstasy.
He studied the score on the ground before looking back up. He plucked the first string and the rest followed suit. Conflicting harmonies rang through the air as he continued to play, humming along with the frail semblance of a tempo he had constructed. The audience suddenly resumed their dance as they moved against their will. Servants and philosophers alike begged for mercy, to be released and to go free. He heard their requests as the notes gradually lost their tune and meaning. For a brief second, the thought of stopping flashed in his head. He didn't care.
As the city continued to burn around them, a spirit entered him. His fingers came to a halt and the music came to life. The ground had started to shift and turn. Chords dragged themselves out from under the dirt, keys formed husks out of urine, and melodies buzzed through the air as they observed possible prey. Everyone had stopped dancing to watch it unfold, staring agape at the wonders before them. Minutes hung in the air. Flames popped and crackled. The man observed the stillness around them, as if waiting for permission to move. His eyes moved to the score still on the ground, looking back up at him. It was waiting for its conductor to resume. After a moment's hesitation, he put his lyre down on the ground and snapped his fingers as he complied with its wishes.
The music descended onto the crowd. Servants were scorched, their flesh turned to a crisp. Philosophers were sliced open, entrails spilling into the ashes. Children jabbed their nails into dirt as they were forcibly dragged into the cracks of the ground. The pit was complete anarchy, and all involved were singing beautiful, heavenly notes. The lyre had started to play itself, and the music it produced was that which he had so desired to play as everything burned. Regrettably, he thought to himself, none would remain to capture in detail this wondrous scene. Everything would be burned and whittled away, and the only remains would be ash.
Nero understood this, and knew he had no more to accomplish with the performance. He picked up the score. Blood trickled onto it, and satisfaction filled him. He flipped the score over and found just enough empty space. Foreign ideas and thoughts rustled in his head, and inspiration burrowed itself in him. There was still more for him to do.
The symphony continued to play as he began diligently composing.