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⚠️ Content warning: Extreme body horror. Also, if you have emetophobia, you might want to be careful reading Act IV and the story-within-a-story in Act III.


⚠️ content warning  
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NOTICE: You are viewing the iteration of this document prior to Incident-7702-Black. The current iteration is restricted to the involved detachment of Mobile Task Force Nu-7 "Hammer Down" until the threat posed by SCP-7702-D is stabilized.

A map of SCP-7702. SCP-7702-A is visible in the center.

Item: SCP-7702
Object Class: Keter
Special Containment Procedures: Due to its capabilities, permanent containment of SCP-7702 is not possible. In lieu of this, the Buyan Protocol has been developed at Site-59 to minimize civilian exposure to SCP-7702.
Project Buyan consists of the following tools:

Buyan-1 is a computer cluster designed to co-opt civilian and military satellite mapping systems to track all SCP-7702 appearances. As such, it can triangulate SCP-7702's new location in a minimum of five minutes after a relocation event.
Buyan-2 is an automated webcrawler that locates and suppresses any discussions on the internet about SCP-7702.
Buyan-3 is a heavily armored remote-controlled drone driven by propellers. Through the usage of its experimental Buyan-3A module1, it can instantaneously relocate two kilometers above any whole-number latitude/longitude input on Earth.

Once a new location is identified and mapped by Buyan-1, Project Buyan staff will examine the surrounding area and determine whether to implement Response Buyan-A or -B.

Buyan-A: If SCP-7702 is in an area with a low population density, Foundation Agents will be stationed in the surrounding area to discretely bar civilians from entry.

This is to be done with discretion, so as to delay another relocation event for as long as possible.

Buyan-B: If SCP-7702 is in an area where a higher population density increases the likelihood of civilian encounters, Buyan-3 is to be deployed to SCP-7702's location and infiltrate the perimeter.

The infiltration must be done as noisily and obviously as possible. If this fails to instantly force a relocation event, the drone operator is to take the following actions until relocation is obtained:

Vandalism of SCP-7702-A with the onboard paint gun.
Flying obnoxiously close to SCP-7702-B.
Usage of the onboard speakers to cheerfully inform SCP-7702-B that the area is under SCP Foundation control. Should this fail, the conversation will continue in an increasingly irritating manner.

All instances of SCP-7702-C are to be cordoned off from the public under the cover of private land development.
Description: SCP-7702 refers to an area of forested wetlands comprising one square kilometer.
The interior of SCP-7702 consists of a circular pond surrounded by a thick border of mangroves. The trees have an anomalous repulsive effect on matter trying to pass between them.
SCP-7702 is capable of teleportation through unknown means. The range of its teleportation is unknown, but all reported sightings have been in temperate, humid biomes, with most recorded appearances occurring in the Southeastern United States, Africa, and South Asia.
Access to SCP-7702 is only possible through an opening on the southern border. the opening leads to a wooden pontoon bridge across the pond to SCP-7702-A.
SCP-7702-A refers to a 200 meter x 200 meter x 10 meter barn built on a wooden pier on the center of the pond. The barn has no doors; the only known way to intentionally enter the barn is through a small corrugated-metal shack attached to the southern wall.
SCP-7702-B is a humanoid entity of variable appearance. In Buyan-1 surveillance footage, SCP-7702-B is most often seen on a lawn chair next to the shack's entrance. SCP-7702-B changes its appearance and spoken language to suit the community's majority mental image of a hospitable, eccentric, and harmless bartender.
When provoked, SCP-7702-B can trigger a relocation event by clapping. These are most often provoked by what SCP-7702-B perceives to be anyone who, in its own words, "came for something other than a drink."
The only other known anomalous capability of SCP-7702-B is that its urine has a pH of 0.5. (See addendum)
Areas previously occupied by SCP-7702 become instances of SCP-7702-C: a one-square-kilometer patch of thin, black slime primarily consisting of genetic material that does not correspond to any mundane organism. Making physical contact with the slime causes a human subject to experience an intense feeling of paranoia, which ends once the slime is removed.
It's unknown what happens to anything within SCP-7702's new location before it materializes, but nothing has been recovered.
Behavior: SCP-7702-B uses SCP-7702 to lure humans into SCP-7702-A. Through unknown means, the appearance of SCP-7702 triggers rumors in the surrounding community of a secret bar where "the best drink in the Universe" is served. The name and type of the purported beverage is inconsistent, usually aligning with the community's preference.
Once a human subject arrives, SCP-7702-B welcomes them inside the shack for a sample of the beverage. While SCP-7702-B will allow a subject to refuse the offer and leave, no subject who has accepted the offer has ever been recovered.
Exploration: On 1/12/22, Undercover Foundation researchers in the extradimensional space known as The Wanderer's Library reported consistencies between SCP-7702 and a predatory entity in Corbenic known as [DATA EXPUNGED]. To properly assess this relationship, an undercover exploration of SCP-7702 was ordered for 2/5/22. In addition to a hidden body camera, the agent involved would be implanted with SCP-2922 in order to explain, if needed, the post-mortem effects of SCP-7702.
Though this was meant to be done with a D-class staff member, Dr. Amelia Salas, a researcher at Site-59, expressed great interest and volunteered for the mission.

From: Lisle Naismith [pcs.noitadnuof|htimsianl#pcs.noitadnuof|htimsianl]
To: Overseer Council
Subject: Personnel Change Request
Relevant Employee Information:
Personal Details
Name: Dr. Amelia Victoria Salas Maldonado
Gender: Female
Age: 27
Birthplace: Albuquerque, New Mexico
Languages Spoken: English, Spanish, Japanese
Specialty: Anomalies involving electronics, computers, and radio waves
Additional Skills: Attained a fifth-dan ranking in kendo as a civilian; often called in for testing with sword anomalies
Professional Details
Position: Class-C Researcher at Site-59
Security Clearance: Level 4
Currently Assigned Item: SCP-2527
Previously Assigned Items: (abridged list — more information available in her SCiPnet listing.)

SCP-7373
SCP-3162
SCP-3137
SCP-2845
SCP-3034 — Note: Used experimental radio-wave hacking technology to identify the entity responsible for the transmissions. Due to the resulting intense psychological trauma, amnestics were issued.
SCP-2803 — Note: Longest assignment. Developed a pacifying rapport with SCP-2803-A. Upon leaving, Dr. Salas was named "honeraryee TotleighSoft SHAR HLODER off teh MUNF!" (sp) by SCP-2803-A.
SCP-231 — Note: Due to staff shortages and logistical issues, Dr. Salas was called in on 4/19/21 to oversee Procedure 110-Montauk. Amnestics were issued immediately thereafter.

Council,
I've been looking into the history of the volunteer you've allowed to participate in the upcoming 2922-assisted exploration of SCP-7702. I'd be the last to deny that she has - at one point - been a valuable asset here at Site-59. The aspect of sending her on a potential suicide mission sobers me.
But that's not why I'm making this request. Site-59's internal mental health department has brought an important variable to my attention.
There have been reports of Dr. Salas remembering things she shouldn't have. Nothing illicit, but seemingly mundane information, such as what her breakfast was on the morning before she was amnesticized.
There is a nonzero chance that Dr. Salas is immune to amnestics.
This is only hypothetical, of course. I'm doubtful that the cause is anomalous; more likely, the product of genetics and incompatible brain chemistry.
But if true, this would be the first recorded case of this condition, which the research team and I have since named Myosotis2. I suppose if you extrapolated this problem, we would need to screen all employees for potential Myosotis.
On a more relevant note, if Dr. Salas does indeed have Myosotis, then that would mean she remembers having assisted with some of the most mentally scarring assignments we have to offer — including Procedure 110-Montauk, the containment procedures for SCP-2845, and [5/████ CLEARANCE REQUIRED].
In all likelihood, she puts up a front of ignorance to avoid termination, while internally processing an inordinate amount of psychological trauma when alone.
The behavioral citations may also have something to do with this. Over the course of her five years of service, I've personally seen her grow more bitter, aggressive, and melancholy by the day. The only times she shows any positive emotions anymore are when she's destroying our morale with tasteless wisecracks. Her poor attitude has alienated her colleagues save for a handful of friends in the IT department, and even they have to walk on eggshells to keep her from cursing someone out.
This has also negatively affected her performance. She only really shines when she's working with TotleighSoft anomalies. Word of mouth among staff is that she finds something in the blind naivete of "P. Hudson Gock" that makes her feel nostalgia for when she was still dreaming of joining the Foundation one day, rather than actually participating.
(When she first joined us, her enthusiasm for the science of anomalies was infectious. Truth be told, I find it hard to hold this negativity against her — if even the brightest mind among us were resistant to amnestics, they, too, would be struggling like this.)
The point is, Dr. Salas's mind is in a very bad place right now, so she may not have volunteered in good faith. I believe she's trying to use an anomaly with a near-100% disappearance rate as a means of suicide.
Consider this my request to remand Dr. Salas into observation until an alternative method of amnestics can be implemented.
- Director Naismith

From: Overseer Council
To: Lisle Naismith [pcs.noitadnuof|htimsianl#pcs.noitadnuof|htimsianl]
Subject: Personnel Change Request
Request denied. Send her into SCP-7702 as planned.
"Myosotis" is definitely worth looking into, but it's still only a hypothesis. More research is needed before this condition can be a deciding factor in our operations.
As for Dr. Salas — your concern for your employees' well-being is commendable. But you would do well to remember how common it is for civilians to grow to hate their job without supernatural aid.
SCP-7702 has not yet appeared in Central Park on a hot day. But the fact that this is hypothetically possible means that we can't waste any more time in finding a way to prevent that from happening.
Besides, if she does want to die, then that makes her a more ethical candidate for this investigation than someone who doesn't.
- O5-2

Investigation Log - 2/5/22

(The time is 12:59 EST. Dr. Salas activates the hidden camera on her lapel as she steps on the pontoon bridge.)
(Proceeding down the bridge, Salas swats away a swarm of gnats.)
Salas: Fuck off.
(More gnats surround her as she approaches SCP-7702-A. One lands on the camera lens.)
Salas: (mumbling) It's all coming together. This state has more than enough land assholes. They gotta fill the air with assholes too. That's science.
(She smashes the gnat on the camera, causing severe turbulence in the footage.)
(The sudden movement has startled SCP-7702-B awake from a nap in its chair. SCP-7702-B takes the appearance of a middle-aged Caucasian man with a Cajun accent. He wears a striped outfit with a bowtie typical of turn-of-the-century American bartenders.)
SCP-7702-B: Aw, hell, did I die in my sleep? Cause you got a look about the eyes like you're the grim reaper himself. Rest of you ain't too bad, though! Rawr.
Salas: Thanks for the opinion. Eat a dick.
SCP-7702-B: Speakin' of which, I assume you're here 'bout L'Orgasmaise?
Salas: The what, now?
(SCP-7702-B gasps with delight. He stands up.)
SCP-7702-B: My sister in Christ, you don't know about L'Orgasmaise?!
Salas: I'm too thirsty to know or care what that is. Do you have something to drink?
SCP-7702-B: Ain't that a coincidence. L'Orgasmaise is absolutely something to drink. It is the thing to drink! It's a special kinda moonshine made from a recipe found scrawled on the wall of a dead lunatic's cell in a Baton Rouge asylum. The poor bastard up and went nuts in pursuit of the greatest white lightning on Earth. And he died for it — but the minute he walked past them gates, all the purdiest angels in Heaven lined up two-by-two just to yank up their skirts and twiddle his pickle, 'cause hot DAMN did he ever succeed in what he set out to do!
(Salas audibly tries to force a more pleasant tone of voice.)
Salas: You know something? I genuinely hate you. Get me your drink and fuck off.
SCP-7702-B: That's the spirit, cher! Less talkie, more drinkie. Come on in and drink you some. First one's free!
(Salas follows SCP-7702-B into the shack. They sit down at opposite ends of a circular patio table lit by a single kerosene lamp. There's a damp wooden door in the back. A streak of dried blood on the rug leads to the bottom of the door.)
(SCP-7702-B pulls out a blurry glass bottle and two shot glasses from a nearby cabinet.)
Salas: How can I be sure this isn't just cyanide?
SCP-7702-B: Alors pas, darlin' — I'm havin' a shot, too. What's wrong? Have I given you any reason not to trust me? What lies have them Foundation eggheads been tellin' ya?
Salas: What "Foundation?"
(SCP-7702-B snickers. He leans down and addresses her hidden camera directly.)
SCP-7702-B: Check out your girl, all "wHaT fOuNdAtIoN?"
(Judging from the sound and SCP-7702-B's reaction, Salas reaches for her gun.)
SCP-7702-B: Awww, ain't no need for that, sugarplum!
Salas: Give me one reason why not.
SCP-7702-B: Just one? Aim higher! I could give ya twelve.
Salas: Enough with the bullshit.
SCP-7702-B: D'accord, d'accord…
(SCP-7702-B's voice completely changes. It drops the accent and addresses Salas with a somber but sympathetic tone.)
SCP-7702-B: So long as we're both dropping the act, let's start over. Good afternoon, Dr. Amelia Salas.
(Salas's heart rate in the corner of the camera feed spikes.)
SCP-7702-B: I've heard a great deal about you from my master. He knows what the Foundation has made you go through. I've seen the memories you've been trying to purge for five years.
Salas: How much does your "master" know?
(SCP-7702-B glances at the camera, then back to Salas.)
SCP-7702-B: Enough to know that you deserve better. So here's my question to you: we both know what the Foundation wants here, but what do you want?
Salas: To get this bullshit investigation over with.
SCP-7702-B: But after that?
…
(Salas places her elbows on the table and holds her forehead in her hands.)
Salas: …I want it to stop.
SCP-7702-B: And "it" is…
Salas: Everything! Fucking everything, all right?! I wanna go back to ten years ago when I didn't know anything about the Foundation. It's… look, I wanna get it off my chest, but there's not a lot I can ethically justify explaining to an enemy.
SCP-7702-B: Who says you have to be literal about it? Just look at Aesop. He knew that his morals wouldn't have had such lasting power unless he used talking animals.
Salas: I guess. I've done things for the safety of the world that require me to… tear out my "I'm still a good person" gland and throw it away. Then immediately afterwards, they give me a prosthetic gland as compensation. But they never have the prosthetic in my size — and if I let them know that, I'm dead.
SCP-7702-B: I'm sorry, but that's objectively the shittiest metaphor I've ever heard.
Salas: Fuck off.
SCP-7702-B: But let's work with it anyway. When you have to tear it out again, do you just tear out something else inside you to keep up the illusion — until you're empty?
Salas: …pretty much, yeah.
(SCP-7702-B nods, then pours out two shots of the substance in the bottle — a greenish-brown liquid similar in consistency to olive oil.)
SCP-7702-B: My master has spoken. He says he'll give you the peace you seek. There are two ways we could go about giving it to you. The first…
(SCP-7702-B waves its free hand. Seventeen rusty pipes with sharpened tips fly up from the floor. They float in the air around Salas. She looks around to see what's going on. The camera moves with her enough to display that the bladed end of the pipe is pressing against her femoral artery.)
(Her heart rate doubles in the corner of the screen.)
SCP-7702-B: ..that's the easy option. But any reward you get out of it will be over before it can be enjoyed.
Salas: And what's the other option?
(SCP-7702-B grabs one of the full shot glasses and motions for Salas to do the same. She does, causing the pipes to fall against the floor all at once.)
SCP-7702-B: It's this. You've probably inferred by now that it isn't whiskey.
Salas: Then what is it?
SCP-7702-B: I can't truly explain it in any way that makes sense to a human. So here's the short answer: it's the only path to the true serenity that self-important traitors like JALAKÅRA have denied your race. The only way to truly exist.
(Seven seconds of silence. The glass quivers in Salas's hand.)
Salas: What does it taste like?
SCP-7702-B: Orange Faygo.
Salas: Fuck it, sold.
(They toast. Salas drinks it quickly.)
(The heart rate suddenly shifts to zero, where it remains. She falls backwards in her chair.)
(SCP-7702-B looms over her. It grins menacingly at the hidden camera. It indicates the full glass of liquid in its hand before shattering it against the wall.)
(Over the next minute, SCP-7702-B drags Salas's body into SCP-7702-A. Only bits and pieces of the ceiling can be seen through the camera. Hundreds of flies appear in every sunbeam peeking through the cracked roof.)
(The labored breathing of an enormous, unidentified animal can be heard on the other side of the barn.)
(Salas falls approximately three meters down a pit in the floor. The sound of her landing is soft and wet. It's too dark to see. More flies are heard.)
(SCP-7702-B falls into the pit feet-first. It turns over Salas's body and removes the camera from her blazer. In the process of moving the camera, it's shown that Salas has been placed on top of an unidentifiable amount of decomposing human bodies.)
(After climbing up a ladder back to the floor of SCP-7702-A, SCP-7702-B places the camera on the floor. The accent from the initial meeting returns.)
SCP-7702-B: Alors, before I pack my bags again, I got a present for y'all. This here's a performance art piece I like to call "La seule chose que je dis à la Fondation", and it goes a little somethin' like this…
(SCP-7702-B disrobes and starts angrily urinating on the camera. The feed cuts off seven seconds later.)
(Note: The camera's remains were recovered in the resulting instance of SCP-7702-C, along with a small puddle of the caustic substance that destroyed it.)

Update: Immediately following Dr. Salas's death in the investigation, the phone at Site-59 assigned to her SCP-2922 implant received 2,384 voicemail messages over the course of five seconds. (It is unknown how SCP-2922 was able to circumvent the phone's data storage limits.)
Efforts to transcribe the messages and to contact Dr. Salas are ongoing via Project Thökk…
@

+ Project Thökk Logs, Part 1 of 2 [abridged]

- [Close]

Notice from the Project Thökk Transcription Team
First of all, this log has been abridged to allow for only the significant portions. For the unabridged log, please contact us directly.
I've heard reports from the telepathy research department about Dr. Salas's particular iteration of SCP-2922. They've been tinkering with a copy of the SCP-2922 to make a newer version that could better help the exploration of areas like Corbenic. This prototype version was given to Salas.
What this means in the way of transcription is that the logs also pick up any noise picked up by Salas's ears. We don't believe that Salas was aware that she had transmitted some of these.
- Keith Pauling, Chief Transcription Liaison for Project Thökk

Project Thökk Transmission #1

(The sound of a light breeze blowing through dense foliage is heard.)
Salas: …there's an afterlife, isn't there? Godfuckingdammit.
(Footsteps through thick grass, presumably Salas's.)
You know what I hate the most about 2922? No dial tone. You can never tell if it's working. So I'm just gonna leave this shit on for as long as possible until someone picks up the phone. Shouldn't be too hard.
Anyway, hey guys, it's me, Janet Spiegel of the Three Moons Initiative. I hate you guys so much that I ditched my husband to eat the Spider God's asshole for eternity or whatever.
(She chuckles.)
FOR SECURITY PURPOSES I SHOULD CLARIFY THAT I'M KIDDING. …fuckin' tightwads.
Last thing I can remember was having a shot of something that absolutely did not taste like Orange Faygo. My chest seized up as soon as the first drop hit my tongue. I heard my head crack against the floor. It sounded like someone breaking a handful of chalk by squeezing their fist.
It disturbed me, all right. But in terms of pain…is it weird that dying was just mildly uncomfortable, at the worst? That poison must have also numbed me.
OH! That reminds me! I'm dead, so I'm no longer under the disciplinary team's jurisdiction. With that in mind, here's my uncensored opinion of everyone at Site-59, in alphabetical order…
[This section ran for 28 minutes and 15 seconds. The transcription team has voted unanimously against adding it to the record.]
…eh, I'll just finish this later once I remember that janitor's name.
But it's not like I have anything better to do, so I'll describe my surroundings.
Sky: pastel pink. Overcast with white clouds. I can't find the sun, but it's pretty hot here; I'd say 30° C. I'm in a rainforest with some white limestone plateaus in the near distance. I'm surrounded by navy-blue ferns, green-petaled sunflowers, and black ponds. Everything's wet. The air smells like a mile-high heap of ground cinnamon - it's hard to breathe sometimes.
The only animals I've seen so far are these tiny black & white frogs. Their front legs are the amphibian equivalent of bat wings. They don't croak or chirp, they just make this low booming moan sound, loud enough for a creature twenty times its size. They can fly and swim, but they seem to have trouble walking. There's a ton of these little fuckers.
What's more, I woke up with my clothes. Or at least I think they are. It takes the appearance and color of what I was wearing, but the material feels different — almost like dry leaves.
I felt some vines under the small of my back snap as I got up. I'm starting to think that some kind of jungle plant grew some clothes around me. That's… nice of that plant, I guess. Bet it didn't think I'd reward it with mutilation. Lemme check where my back was.
(Her footsteps sound again.)
Yep, the clothes plant is dead.
Look, I've heard talk about 7702 being associated with Corbenic, but this isn't like anything from the reports from Galahad. This ain't Corbenic. Part of me still doubts Corbenic even exists in the first place.
I don't know what the hell this place is. Then again, I also haven't moved more than five feet from where I woke up.
You know what? I'll go ahead and give this dimension a serious look-around for y'all — but only on the condition that if other humans find it, we don't start immediately murdering the natives and putting Burger Kings over their monuments. I don't wanna put "I helped with that" on my resume.
(She laughs sardonically. The laughter quickly fades.)
On second thought, I've done worse by default.
(Leaves are heard violently rustling nearby.)
Huh?
(There's a sudden, piercing sound that has the properties of a howl, a purr, and a battle cry. While menacing, there's also an inexplicably joyful tone in the sound.)

Project Thökk Transmission #2

(Salas breaths heavily.)
Salas: So, uh, think I lost him for now. I wanna say I ran into some kind of local apex predator, but… it was wearing pants. Just, these baggy and crudely-woven linen trousers. But it was trying to pounce on me teeth-first. I feel like knowing why the local carnivore wears pants is above my pay grade, and—
(The sound happens again.)
Salas: Aaaand, here he is now. Say hi, jackass.
(Snarling. The sound of a struggle.)
[Note: The tone of Salas's voice carries a different cadence than her telepathic transmissions. Hereafter, "(V)" will be used to indicate what she speaks rather than what she thinks, whereas (M) will denote mental transmissions.]
Salas (V): Get the fuck off me!
(The struggle stops.)
(The entity that made the howling noise vocalizes questioningly.)
Salas (V): What?!
(It speaks in a raspy and animalistic basso-profundo tone, notably masculine.)
Entity: The food talks?
Salas (V): Call me "the food" again. Do it.
(The entity groans with disappointment. Its body can be heard slumping off of Salas's.)
Entity: Talk-food is not eat-food.
Salas (V): The hell are you talking about?
Entity: Um… were you really looking forward to being eat-food? Sorry to disappoint you. I mean, if it's anything, I do think you look tasty, it's just — I don't know how to describe it, but eating talk-food always has this big pile of sad about it afterwards, you know?
Salas (V): I am not food.
Entity: Look, talk-food, I dunno how to tell you this, but everything in the Universe is either food or try-real-hard-food.
Salas (V): My name is Amelia.
Entity: Melyah-food! That's a new one.
Salas (V): FUCK OFF!
(The entity gasps with delight.)
Entity: I like yelling, too!
Salas (V): Ugh, just—
Entity: YELLING! YEEEELLLIIIING!
(It laughs triumphantly.)
Entity: You must be a warrior. I like you!
Salas (V): That's great. I want to bash your fucking head in.
Entity: See? Warrior! If my intuition is correct — and it never isn't not incorrect — I think the good talk-foods of Beaconridge are also gonna make liking-you noises at you.
Salas (V): Stop touching my face. Now.
(The Entity can be heard backing away.)
Salas (V): Thank you.
Entity: Did you just issue me an order? …and then thank me for my service? By the mist below! Do you have any idea what this means?!
Salas (V): That you understand the bare minimum about personal boundaries.
Entity: It means you're also a KING!
(The entity's body slams against the ground, presumably in prostration.)
Entity: Sire!
…
Salas (V): I'm leaving. Do not follow me.
(Footsteps. The entity's voice is now in the distance.)
Entity: Awaiting your next command, Melyah-King!
Salas (V): I'M A FUCKING WOMAN.
Entity: Forgive me, Melyah-KingWarrriorTalkFoodWoman!

Project Thökk Transmission #3

(Trickling water.)
Salas (M): Finally got some distance between me and the weirdo. Sitting by a stream. Found some small fish that were pretty mundane-looking until I saw their folded-up arthropod legs. The fish don't talk — which means they can't say stupid crap about talk-food, so they're now tied with the flying frogs for my favorite animals here.
Now that I think about it, this could part of Corbenic after all. Maybe a very distant part of it where you can't see the Moons. I say this because all the cuts and scrapes I took from fighting off that freak healed back up in less than five minutes. Save for the memories of taking the blows, I feel good as new.
Speaking of that guy earlier — and he seemed pretty masculine, so I'm calling him a guy until I learn otherwise — I should probably describe him while I still have some peace and quiet.
For starters, I got a closer look at the pants. They're not actually linen. I think they might be made from the woven fibers of an extremely soft and pliable kind of wood. I hope it chafes like hell.
Bipedal, four limbs, stood upright, thin, a human mouth…But that's where the similarities to a human end.
He's covered in these smooth scales that are dull-golden in color. There are black circles around his eyes — not like it's from fatigue, more like two permanent black eyes. Black lips. Fangs, blue eyes with pupils like vertical slits. A nose more like a cat than that of a primate. Four-fingered hands tipped with black claws. I didn't get a good look at his feet — I think he keeps his heels hidden in his pants, always standing on his three lanky tiptoes. No nipples or bellybutton.
At first I thought he had this huge head of fluffy white hair — it's feathers. Long white feathers, dotted here and there with smaller red ones, sticking up half a meter from his head. Down his back. On the backs of his forearms. It smells like wildflowers.
In short, he looks like the eventual genetic result of a thousand generations of every animal in the world systematically fucking each others' brains out.
Oh, I almost forgot to mention the weirdest part: he's about three meters tall, at the absolute least. Whenever he spoke to me, he had to squat like a Russian teenager. He'd touch my face every now and then. It didn't feel like he was asserting dominance or anything, more like…exploring? He must have been curious.
(Sigh.)
Now that I think about it, he didn't seem malicious at all once he found out I could talk. In his own way, he was trying to treat me like a guest. Maybe I was too hard on him.
Then again, I'm dead, so he did meet me at a pretty stressful time of my life. I hope I get see him again so we can explain ourselves better.
So, until he tells me his name, I'm gonna call him… Tallboy, I guess? Reasons being: 1. He's pretty tall, and 2. I miss booze…
…oh, my God, that's right. I don't know if this dimension has anything I could get drunk with.
…
That one lab report in sixth grade. We had to make wine out of grape juice from concentrate. They even let us sip a little for posterity. Everyone but me said it tasted awful.
How did we do it?!
The one time in my life I have to reverse-engineer it, and…why the fuck didn't I pay attention?!
…
(The sound of a human fist hitting a tree at a high velocity.)

Project Thökk Transmission #4

(Aggressive splashing noises.)
Salas (M): Heh, yeah, it's me again. Listen… remember when I said I hoped I'd get to see Tallboy again?
Entity Tallboy: Melyah! MELYAAAAH!
Salas (M): Kill me.
(Even more aggressive splashing.)
Tallboy: (Unintelligible; closest approximation is "look how many fish I can fit in my mouth!")
Salas (V): Yes. Yes. You are an excellent hunter-gatherer. Go away.
Tallboy: (Unintelligible)
(Splashing noises, followed by fast-approaching stomping.)
Salas (V): What are you doing…?
(The stomping grows closer.)
Salas (V): No! STOP THAT—!
(Squishing, flapping sounds. Amelia screams and chokes.)
Tallboy: Astounding! That's even more fish than I started out with. You'll fit right in at Beaconridge, my dear talk-food!
Salas (V): (Muffled yelling.)

Project Thökk Transmission #5

(A campfire crackles nearby.)
Tallboy: …so you're telling me that your species doesn't like being fish-throated?
(Salas's struggles to speak for a few seconds, but her throat regenerates.)
Salas (V): I mean, if you did that in my world, I'd choke and die.
Tallboy: What is "die?"
Salas (V): Well, it's—
Salas (M): Hang on, no. I don't wanna deal with the philosophical implications of introducing the concept of death to a world that knows nothing about it.
Tallboy: Ohhh, do you mean the thing the fish do when you hit them a lot?
Salas (V): I — yes, that's exactly what happens. Their wounds don't regenerate?
Tallboy: They stop moving forever, if that's what you mean. The smaller animals can't heal like we do.
Salas (V): So what's your word for when a fish does that?
Tallboy: Dinner!
Salas (M): …don't laugh — dont encourage him — stiff upper lip, Amy…
Tallboy: Why do you smile?
Salas (M): FUCKING SHIT ON A ROUNDED WHORETANGLE.
Tallboy: Ah, I'm sure you've got your secret Melyah-King reasons for smiling. Reminds me, though — have I told you my name yet?
Salas (V): I don't think you have.
Tallboy Feck: I'm Feck. I don't know how to spell it, but this one guy in Beaconridge says it's "F-E-C-K."
Salas (V): Lemme guess, is he Irish?
Feck: What is "Irish?"
Salas (V): (With an Irish accent) Does he talk like this, boyo?
Feck: (Tiny gasp) You know him!
Salas (M): Called it.
Salas (V): Not him, just where he came from before he went to, uh… what do you call this place, anyway?
Feck: The part you want to see is Beaconridge. The rest? Like here? This forest? Those mountains? The mist below the cliff?
(He sighs sadly.)
…the name of this place is "the reason you'll want to stay in Beaconridge."
(Sounds consistent with a large man standing up from a log.)
Listen - not even a warrior-king like you would be safe out here for much longer. If I promise not to fish-throat you again, could I take you to Beaconridge?

Project Thökk Transmission #6

Salas (M): Finally found the real name for this dimension: it's called "Kegelapan."
True to my guess, Beaconridge is Kegelapan's human settlement. It's bigger than I anticipated; I'd say between 400-600 people live here. Apparently every human who lives here fell for SCP-7702-B's little trick at one point or another, whether or not they remember it. The only exception is Lord Vee, who's just… always been here, and he doesn't remember why. (More on Lord Vee in a moment.)
Feck took me as far as the gate. He refused to go in. He had this look about his face that was between sad and humorous when he said he wasn't allowed in.
I'm still not sure what exactly he was talking about, but here's what Feck told me about his standing in Beaconridge…
Feck, his twin sister Trow3, and this human king named Lord Vee have been living in Kegelapan longer than any of the other humans here — so long that their memory only goes a few decades back.
Vee rules the humans in Beaconridge, Feck guards the humans of Beaconridge from the jungle's monsters, and Trow…
Trow's the local Grinch. Feck's the only one who shows any positive emotion when he speaks of her, and even he's a little conflicted. Maybe it's because they're family?
She lives up high in the nearby plateaus. (Again, Grinch.) She hates the crap out of humans — especially Vee — and sends these monsters called "Scrapes" every now and then to carry off whatever prisoners they can.
And wouldn't you know it, that's also the reason that Feck can't enter the town. Vee thinks very highly of Feck, but everyone else… well, being Trow's brother carries the typical guilt-by-association bullshit. So he's been trying to fight off Trow's monsters to get back on the town's good side. He's been trying for decades now, and not making much headway. He can only live in a nasty little cave in a hill over Beaconridge, where he rests in-between guard duties.
I really hope someone goes out there to be his friend. Maybe he's completely insufferable, but who wouldn't be after decades of being treated like him?
…
…I swear to God, if I'm actually getting emotionally invested in this giant golden moron, I'm gonna pluck out my eyeballs and eat them on garlic toast.

Project Thökk Transmission #10

Salas (M): Getting settled in here in Beaconridge. Everyone speaks the same language here; my guess is that it's a perception-filter situation. Just to confirm, I spoke with this one priest dude who said he only spoke English. I asked him several questions in Spanish and Japanese, and he understood them perfectly.
The whole town's on the edge of a cliff over a huge chasm. No one's seen the bottom of the chasm — there's this pale green mist all over the bottom. (That's where they get the name of a town, by the way. The edge of the cliff is marked by purple-flamed torches after dark.)
Most basic amenities (food, clothes, etc.) come from these little plants called "serfblooms" growing at the edges of town. The first serfbloom I dealt with was the one that grew clothes around me. Having clothes grown around you is just as much of a daily ritual here as brushing your teeth.
The main industry here comes in the form of the "finders." Everyone either is a finder or wants to eventually become one. Finders like rappelling down the cliff and into the caves on the side. Apparently the caves are full of random treasure. And I mean really random — it's never shit like diamonds or jewelry, but food, books from different worlds, animals, livestock, toys, clothes — sometimes it's the most mundane shit, other times it's the kind of things you'd expect to find contained at one of our facilities.
You'd think the caves would run out of this stuff — but no, it's a different cave with different stuff every day. Brownie points to whoever their god is for finding a way to alleviate boredom.
The biggest find last week was a unicorn. And not even a figurative unicorn or a statue of one, I mean an honest-to-god white unicorn. I saw it shown off the town square. …poor little shit's covered in fleas.
I'm about to meet Lord Vee for my intake. Vee's right-hand man is this buff guy with curly hair. He answers to "The Greek." (His proper name must be an unlockable privilege for the local-est of locals.) The Greek doesn't say much, but ever since I brought up the Foundation, I don't think he trusts me that much…

Project Thökk Transmission #11

The Greek: Conduct yourself with reverence when the curtain opens. You cannot kill Lord Vee, but it is entirely possible to ruin his day, and that is equally unforgivable.
Salas (V): Okay, but where did I indicate that I had any interest in killing him?
The Greek: Where did I indicate that you are entitled to my trust, woman?!
Salas (M): I hope you get a Lego stuck under your right eyelid and it cheese-graters your eye into a fine, gelatinous sludge over the course of twelve years.
Salas (V): Fair enough!
(A curtain is drawn back.)
The Greek: Master.
Salas (M): That is a nine year old Mormon boy sitting on a throw pillow.
Vee: That's a Dr. Amelia Salas, all right. Wa-ooooh.
Salas (M): …who talks like an old chain smoker on quaaludes. Yeah, why not?
Vee: See what I did there, that was me drawing out "wow" for a long time. Makes it two syllables.
Salas (V): Yeah, I figured. Are you all right?
Vee: Pardon?
Salas (V): It's just, you seem a little…
The Greek: She has disrespected you, sire. Shall I throw her off the cliff?
Salas (M): Shit.
(Vee suddenly breaks into sleepy fits of giggling.)
Vee: Noooooo! No no no nooo! Don't do her a throw off the cliff! You're so silly. See, Dr. Salas, I'm feeling a little loopy because I'm in the middle of some very intense meditation.
(Vee slaps a hand repeatedly against something.)
Salas (M): Just noticed this now. His right hand is bulky. It's covered by an ornately woven silk handkerchief of some sort.
Vee: I'm an Esto practicioner. Esto is the art of attaining true happiness. My forefathers perfected it over many ages. I'm one of the last people alive who can teach it. I'm teaching the Greek right now. Aren't I?
(The Greek chuckles through his nose haughtily.)
The Greek: There is no purer satisfaction. But I have only scraped the surface as of yet. Even a man like the Buddha could only dream of what Lord Vee has achieved.
Vee: So don't mind me if I seem a little silly. How about you, Dr. Salas? What brings you here?
Salas (V): I mean, if you know my name, you probably know how I got here.
Vee: Sure! But I wanna hear your answer.
Salas (V): Okay, well…
(Salas explains the story so far.)
Vee: WA-oooh.
Salas (V): Yeah.
Vee: …to clarify, that was me taking "wow" and—
Salas (V): Y-yeah, you don't have to tell me that again.
Vee: Well, usually when people get this far in Beaconridge, they wanna learn how to be a finder. Who knows what you'll find in the caves? You could even find your way back home.
Salas (M): I would rather shit into my open mouth than go back to being the Foundation's traumatic memory pincushion.
Salas (V): I hope I find something else.
Vee: (Laughing) Don't shit into your open mouth! That's silly!
Salas (M): …can this little fucker read my thoughts?
Vee: Your thoughts are silly.
Salas (M): I did not mean to call you that.
Vee: Well, I can see your thoughts. I can see what you want.
You've seen a universe that's unsalvageably chaotic. You've been forced to compromise every value that separates you from monsters in the name of job safety.
When you started working for the Foundation, you wanted to use the power of science to save the world. You spent your tenure at Site-59 being told, over and over, that there's nothing to save but the status quo. So what do you want?
Salas (V): I want it to stop.
Vee: You want a fight you can win. Something you can save without complications.
Salas (V): I want it to stop.
Vee: But what's "it"?
…
Salas (V): Fighting a losing battle.
(Vee giggles again.)
Vee: I talked to Mr. Feck. He says you're a warrior.
Salas (V): He only called me that because he heard me yell a few times. By that logic, he'd probably think a trombone is a warrior.
(The sound of metal being drawn against metal is heard.)
Salas (M): Vee just pulled a sword out of thin air. A European hand-and-a-half longsword, by the looks of it.
Vee: This was found in the cave last month. Wes was the finder, so it belonged to him.
Salas (V): And where's Wes?
Vee: The Scrapes took him away.
…
It belongs to you now.

Project Thökk Transmission #15

(Fires crackle. A church bell rings. Some people are yelling indistinct evacuation orders.)
Salas (M): I finally got a look at one of those "Scrape" things. Imagine a sea urchin, but every spine is the blade of an old, rusty pair of scissors with a poisoned tip. The spines can bend enough that they can be walked on like a hundred disorganized pairs of legs.
Each Scrape's about the size of one of a U-Haul truck. They carry their victims away by impaling them on the tips of their spines like decorations. And worst of all…
(A high-pitched chirping noise accompanies the scraping of metal on cobblestones.)
Salas (M): …their voices are so fucking cute.

Project Thökk Transmission #16

Salas (V): …but you have a goddamn pitchfork. There's a bulbous wad of flesh in the middle of each and every one of them. How many arteries could you sever at once with a single thrust?
Farmer: They're invincible.
Salas (V): You literally just said that their wounds don't regenerate fifty-three seconds ago.
Another Farmer: Leave him alone! His son was taken by the Scrapes.
Salas (V): Then let's avenge him!
Farmer: My son said the same things you do.
Merchant: So what if they can die? Lord Vee said that fighting a Scrape is forbidden to everyone but Feck.
Salas (V): So, what, is this what fucking happens when everyone in a town full of puppets asks the Blue Fairy to turn them into a real BITCH?!
Priest: Your need inner peace. Have you tried the Way of Esto?

Project Thökk Transmission #17

(The church bells sound more quickly. Scrapes can be heard chirping in a dissonant chorus. Every so often, one screams a little shriller, followed by the clattering of steel on the ground.)
(Feck laughs though his warbling war-cry.)
Feck: WAR-FOOD!
(Flesh tears from flesh. Feck gargles liquid that pours into his mouth.)
(Running footsteps. The gargling draws closer.)
Feck: Melyah?!
Salas (V): Yo.
Feck: It's nice to see you, but the not-getting-hurt direction is the other way.
Salas (V): That's great. I have a sword and I need an outlet for my anger issues.
Feck: What is "outlet?"
Salas (V): Fuck you.
Feck: You're still running in the get-stabbed-a-lot direction. Curious as to why.
Salas (V): Don't care. Wounds regenerate. Gonna fight the Scrapes.
Feck: But can you use the war-hurt-thing?
(Wet, squelching noise. Feck vocalizes in brief, extreme pain.)
Feck: I see. Very good!
(More Scrape vocalizations. The noise converges on Salas.)
Salas (M): …am I supposed to not be feeling this much pain? Did my nervous system just quit?!
(Wet stabbing noises. She shrieks.)
Salas (M): Mommy, I would like to go home now.
(A series of brief, rapid chirping. It sounds vaguely like laughter.)
Salas (V): Stop JUDGING ME!
(Stab. A Scrape cries out in extreme pain.)
Salas (M): Oh my sweet merciful shit, that actually worked.
(The Scrapes chirp nervously.)
Salas (M): It just fell apart with one thrust. Is that normal? I mean, Feck's been ripping them apart by the blades, but…
(Feck chuckles.)
Feck: They're scared, Melyah. I've destroyed many. But they've never seen your kind do it.
(The Scrapes' movements fade into the distance.)
Salas (M): I don't know what to say. When's the last time I felt like this? It's… nice.
Salas (V): Hey, Feck?
Feck: HA! Forgetting my name is an enemy in itself, and you have destroyed that as well!
Salas (V): Can we, I dunno, do this again sometime?
Feck: The war-food comes always. If you enjoy their coming, you'd be one of two people with that opinion.
Salas (V): And who's the other person?
Feck: The one who's about to throw you into the air in triumph.
Salas (V): Wait, wha—
(Sounds of a brief struggle.)
Feck: VICTORY THROW! THE SKY KISSES YOUR FACE!
(His voice fades into the distance.)
Feck: WAIT, IS THIS ALSO A THING YOU DON'T LIKE?
(Splat.)
Feck: Ohhh… just a minor criticism: the ground is not a good place to put your viscera.
Salas (M): Why aren't you guys answering the fucking phone?

Project Thökk Transmission #18

Salas (M): Took me a whole year, but I finally found someone else who was with the Foundation in Beaconridge. Her name's Dr. Rodina Nicolescu. She used to be with Site-19. Maybe her name will pop up in your records somewhere.
Dr. Nicolescu worked with temporal anomalies for the most part. Through talking with her, I went over the problems I've been having with your chronic failure to answer the phone when I call. And as much as this solution sickens me, it seems to make the most sense.
She thinks there's some kind of time-dilation effect in this dimension. One second would pass in your world, but here, it would take… weeks? Months? Maybe years? Either way, sorry for nagging you guys so much. Even if you could pick up the phone at this point, it would probably sound like (makes some quick, high-pitched "chipmunk" noises) or something.
Anyway, it's been about a year (our time) since my last transmission.
Vee was impressed with how I handled my first Scrape. He still doesn't think the other humans should fight them — keeps saying they're "not ready" — but he appointed me the co-protector of the city, along with Feck.
I've been learning more about these Scrape things. The poison on the tips of their blades isn't actually poison - it's a crude anesthetic. If I didn't know better, I'd say these Scrapes aren't here to kill anyone.
(chuckles)
Sorry, I just realized how stupid that sounds. No human dies here. But they're not here to torture, either — just to terrify and subdue. I guess Trow has something resembling a conscience, or at least a moral compass.
But even if she does, no one's seen hide or hair of her for years, and no one knows her motivation other than "fuck off, humans." For all we know, she could be gone, leaving an educated Scrape in charge.
I'm having more fun than I did at Site-59, no doubt. I'd be lying if I said this was all fun and games, but at least I'll never have to see [REDACTED], [REDACTED], or [REDACTED], or take part in [REDACTED] again.

Project Thökk Transmission #73

Salas (V): The fuck are you on about?!
Wallace4: I said, your barter's no good here.
Salas (V): I got that part. What I need is an explanation.
Wallace: Need it, then.
…
Salas (V): …so, am I stealing the beer I was asking for —
Wallace: Leave before I call the Greek over.
Salas (V): Adorable. You really think he's gonna risk losing more people to Scrapes by throwing half the security force off the cliff?
Wallace: What, are we supposed to trust you, now? After all you've done to enable Feck? He's been waiting for his chance to let all the Scrapes in through the back door for his sister, and here you are, thinking, "Wow. That's a real stand-up sorta guy. I'd better help him."
(A small bottle uncorks.)
Wallace: What are you doing? …is that paint? Is this your idea of vandalism?
Salas (V): Scrape mating pheromones. Your booth's about to meet the love of its life.
Salas (M): (Actually, it's berry juice.)
(Wallace shuffles through supplies, trying to find something to wipe it off.)
Salas (V): (Chortling) Oh, it doesn't wipe off. It just spreads.
Wallace: What's the point of this? Petty revenge?! Well, mission accomplished.
Salas (V): The point is hand over all your beer. Now.
Wallace: Why?! After what you've done —
Salas (V): Because I have more.
(The clinking of bottles being handed over.)
Salas (V): Not so hard, was it?
Wallace: Go away.
Salas (V): Laters!
(Six seconds of footsteps.)
Wallace: (mumbling) I hope Feck gives you a meter-wide anus.
(Glass bottles crash in the distance.)
Wallace: GET IT OFF GET IT OFF GET IT OFF GET IT OFF
The Greek: Salas!
Salas (M): Worth it.

Project Thökk Transmission #74

Salas (M): So, the little house I had on the northern cliffside… they kinda gave it to Wallace to be his new shop. Vee tried to vouch for me, but Wallace's drinking buddies make up the entire justice council. So until I come back into the townspeople's good graces, I have to live in this stupid cave with —
Feck: Melyah! Look! Look!
Salas (M): One sec.
Feck: I made you a teller-vision for your sleep-room! You can watch all your story-shows on it.
Salas (M): Feck's showing me this slab of wood. He drew a picture of a frowny face on it with berry juice.
Feck: You like drama-story-shows, right? This is called "The man who is always sad." Try as he might, his expression never changes — SCRAPES!
Salas (V): Where?!
Feck: Behind you! Quickly!
(Her sword clatters in her hands.)
Salas (V): Come out, motherfuckers, I'll — where are they?
(Feck snickers.)
(Salas sighs.)
Salas (V): Okay, what did you do?
Feck: Look at the teller-vision again.
Salas (M): He just drew angry eyebrows on the frowny face.
Feck: PLOT TWIST!

Project Thökk Transmission #239

Salas (M): Hey, remember the Greek? Dude's warmed up to me a little. But I'm starting to think that being on his good side is a little worse than being on his bad side.
He told me the most fucked-up story yesterday. I ended up writing down most of what I could. Some of it was from memory.
I think it gave me some insight into this "Esto" religion that keeps making the rounds. Now I'm positive that it's something I wanna stay as far away from as possible.
Lemme see if I can pull it up — oh, hey, forgot my handwriting's basically "monkey taking a piss in the shape of the alphabet" tier. This might take a while.

Before I came here, my name was Xanthias. I was a slave from the first time I opened my eyes to the last time I closed them on Earth.
My one living relative was an older brother named Medon — he was also a slave. I cherished him more than anything else. His were the unwavering arms that sheltered me from our cruelest masters.
I was born in Athens. It was never a good life — Medon and I were passed around from master to master, praying to Athena that this one would be a little kinder.
But once the Persians took the city, I began to yearn for the past, when life was merely intolerable rather than excruciating. King Dareios and his demons blamed all Athenians equally for some nonsense in Ionia. The stench of corpses choked the air of every street.
We were handed off to one of Dareios's close associates, a general who lived in Ecbatana. The general gave me the title of cupbearer. He never once asked me to bear a cup. "Cupbearer" must have been a euphemism for everything else he did to me.
As my torments grew daily, so did Medon's desire for revenge. One night, when the general had too much to drink, Medon smothered both him and his wife as they lay in their beds. And since they were the general's guests at the time, Medon turned his blade on King Dareios. Had he drawn the knife an instant sooner, you would have known Medon today as the man who slew Darius the Great.
Medon was sentenced unto the boats. Have you heard of it? …before I describe it to you, have you eaten recently?
The boats were the Persians' specialty. Medon was clasped in a coffin of two boats facing one another. His hands, feet, and head were exposed. Torturers forced milk and honey down his throat. Bathed him in it. Medon and his prison were left in a pond to decay in the open sunlight. Every so often the Persians would come to feed him once more.
I fled my new master and searched throughout the countryside for Medon. For two weeks, I was unsuccessful. But on the fifteenth day, when I found him, every manner of verminous pest had been summoned by two weeks of vomit and excrement.
He was being devoured from within.
And he was smiling.
Once I had finished weeping, I leaned down to break his neck.
But my brother spoke, and a mouthful of biting flies slurred his speech.
"No, Xanthias. The darkest and coldest house in Hades is reserved for he who kills his own brother out of jealousy."
"Jealousy?" said I.
"Is it so unusual that you would be jealous? Thousands upon thousands of new and curious children are born from my flesh. Life has begun upon my soil, and I have become a world.
The instant I ceased my resistance, Prince VUUOU5 anointed me in my waking dreams. My agony cleansed me of all worldly and temporary joys. Only the secret immortal light remained, the one that shines the brightest in adversity.
And when that light was no longer smothered by mundane comfort… I became the king who rules myself. By my divine right, I abolished everything but truth and beauty from my kingdom. Fiakh Duhazh Esto. Fiakh Duhazh Esto! FIAKH DUHAZH ESTO!"
By then, I had broken his neck. His last breath was spent on a squeal of joy, as if he were in the arms of a vicious lover twice his size.
His broken body burned itself into my mind as an ashen silhouette. It was not even my fear that overcame me - I was mystified by how anyone could find such happiness in the worst tortures imaginable.
I had no want of his fate.
But I needed the peace he had found.
For years, I was in the thrall of that singular image worse than I had ever been in the thrall of a slaver. I thought I was going mad. Seeking anything to take my mind off that moment, I wandered aimlessly toward the east, stealing meals from towns I'd never visit again, scraping by as a vagrant.
My madness only ended the day I died, alone and naked, in the stable of someone else's diseased horse.
Because when I closed my eyes for the last time… I opened them to see VUUOU, smiling down upon me.
He asked of me, "Did it hurt when you died?"
I nodded.
"Did the littlest creatures of the stables feast upon you?"
I nodded.
"And how did it feel?"
I replied: "I still do not understand."
"You will, Xanthias. The longer the adversity, the more beauty is forged within…"

Project Thökk Transmission #432

Salas (M): I think I have a serious problem.
I should preface this with Feck's new side gig. He's always wanted to go on those little "finder" missions for treasure.
But there used to be this Catch-22 about it: on one hand, the humans get really pissed if Feck joins them during daylight hours. (Y'know, because they're morons.) On the other, he could go down and do it properly at night — but nighttime's when the Scrapes attack. So up until a few months ago, Feck's been confined topside.
But one night, Feck remarked that I've grown strong enough to hypothetically handle a Scrape attack on my own.
So I told myself, "y'know what? This guy's been working his ass off to protect people who won't even give him the time of day. He deserves a day off." I offered to let Feck go down the cliff for one night a week while I handled the spiky boys.
That made Feck so happy that he… punched himself in the head a few times? (Good to know he can still be confusing as hell.)
So the little deal we had going on worked without a hitch for a few weeks. I was worried I'd get in over my head, but the little pit and net traps I've set up for the Scrapes seemed to be doing the trick.
But here's where my aforementioned problem comes into play…
Yesterday was Feck's day off again. When he came back, he brought a few cases of Modelo with him. (Apparently the treasures in the caves comes from the residents' subconscious being given form.) But he came back five hours late.
Because when I saw him rappel down as usual, his rope snapped.
(Sigh.)
I mean, obviously he's okay now, he climbed back up. He made it out like he always does. And he's immortal like I am!
But I saw him go flailing into the mist.
I must have stared after him for an hour. I left when the Scrapes started coming.
If anything, the intense emotions I was feeling at the time helped with fighting them off. Put a little extra fuel in each thrust.
…
This is so fucking embarrassing.
Barring the collective free space of my infancy, I have cried a total of six times in my life.
The first was when my goldfish died, two through four was when my dogs died, the fifth was after my turn with Procedure 110-Montauk.
The sixth was for this stupid-ass dinosaur.

Project Thökk Transmission #583

Vee: Dr. Saaaa.
Salas (V): We came as soon as we could. What's going on —
Vee: Laaaaas.
Salas (M): Please let this conversation take less than five minutes.
Feck: Is this about the having-a-lot-of and being-all-over-the-place that the Scrapes have been doing of late?
Vee: How very astute!
Feck: Teehee. Ass toot.
(Salas stifles a giggle.)
The Greek: Feck, for the love of—
Vee: Feck may speak as he sees fit. But yes, this does regard the Scrapes. I'm not so much concerned with the number of Scrapes as with the number of my fellow humans going missing.
Salas (V): Yeah, about that — this isn't sustainable. Ten people were carried off in the last week alone.
Feck: Melyah, we're doing the best we can…
Salas (V): Exactly! We've been busting our asses and it's only gotten worse. There's only one solution: we need more people on the defensive.
(Vee sighs.)
Vee: You're right… you're very right. In a perfect world, I'd have everyone pulling their weight.
But do you know why I made the taboo against fighting the Scrapes in the first place? Because you and Feck are the only people who know how to fight them effectively.
Salas (V): Who says we can't train some new people?
Vee: And who says they'll listen? It's a shame that their distrust runs so deep, but that's the human experience in a nutshell.
But I didn't come here just to tell you it's hopeless. I've come into some new information. Something that could make Scrape attacks a distant memory.
Feck: You found Trow?!
Vee: Yes.
Salas (V): Great, so when do we gank her?
Feck: NO!
Salas (M): Oh, right, they're a dysfunctional family.
Feck: Trow is not a bad person-thing. Trow is… confused. The Scrapes must have mind-changed-around her. Turned her into Fake-Trow. Real-Trow is kind. Sweet. And almost as pretty as Melyah!
Salas (V): Never call me that again.
Feck: I refuse to say lie-words!
The Greek: Your sister is a murderer.
Feck: Your mouth is a shit-craftsman.
Vee: Guys, guys… I'm not telling you to kill her. Whatever we think of Trow, she's just as immortal as any of us.
But Feck has a point. Trow is not acting on her own free will. Keep this on the down-low, but I've heard whispers among the frogs and the weasel-mice of the valley.
Salas (M): Because of fucking course he has.
Vee: And they've said that the reason for Trow's hatred of mankind is something in her possession called the Plate of Remembrance.
If you take that Plate of Remembrance away from her, then not only will your sister come to her senses, Feck, but the attacks will stop, and the people of Beaconridge will see how wrong they've been about you.
Salas (V): That sounds like a good idea. Right, Feck?
…
Feck: I don't care what the talk-foods think of me. So long as they're being happy with the other talk-foods, Feck is happy. But the other goal-stuff sounds nice!

Project Thökk Transmission #584

Salas (M): It was three-day-long shitshow getting up the Stairs Made of Cliffs - it's literally called that on this map of Kegalapan, by the way - but I'm just about to crawl over the last cliff.
Feck's handling the Scrape attacks back home. (I can't believe I just called it "home" just now.) Only a few Scrapes saw me on the way up, and I took care of them pretty quickly.
What really concerns me is the potential nest of Scrapes I'm about to enter.
Well, just gonna peek my head over for posterity, and —
…
What in the hickory-dickory-dick am I looking at?

Project Thökk Transmission #585

Salas (M): I'm at the edge of Kegalapan. I don't mean a border - it's the literal goddamn edge of the world.
Behind me, there's a horizon, a cloud layer, and a distant path to the mist below. In front of me, there's…
Nothing. Empty white space. It's too bright to look at sometimes. The ground ends in jagged, triangular cut-outs. If I look closely, the cut-outs correspond to the same shape that makes the Scrapes' blades. Is this how the Scrapes are made? Are they constructed from these shards of empty space being painted and sharpened to a point?
The only thing beyond the edge is this crooked path leading to a hill where these spatial-fragments have been piled up on top of one another. Like a heap of scrap paper.
There's big hole in the top of the pile from the walkway.
Nowhere to go but in…
"Childe Roland to the dark tower came."
…oh, fuck off, that's the one cool thing I remember from AP English Lit.

Project Thökk Transmission #586

(Cacophonous chirping and cutting noises. Salas screams and gargles.)
Salas (M): I FUCKING HATE THESE GUYS I FUCKING HATE THESE GUYS I FUCKING HATE THESE GUYS I [Truncated for redundancy]

Project Thökk Transmission #587

(The sound of slow, wet footsteps, with Salas dragging the sword behind her. They echo throughout a small cave tunnel.)
Salas (M): I am covered in Scrape guts and blood mixed with my own blood and it tingles and it smells like lemons and why does it fucking smell like lemons is there citric acid in their blood and it stings and I think this is how a cucumber feels when it's being pickled and I'm officially sorry to every pickle I've ever eaten and fuck this fuck this fuck ALL of this I need to SHIT where's your FUCKING BATHROOM, TROW?!
(A single chirp in the distance.)
Salas (V): (Frustrated sobbing.)

Project Thökk Transmission #588

Salas (V): (Delirious, exhausted laughter)
Salas (M): Heeey guuuys. I do NOT know how long I've been down here. Good news! Scrapes are EXTINCT!
That's right, potential investors, I've killed EVERY. LAST. ONE. I'm a war criminal!
But who cares?! They're basically meat robots made out of meat and dirt! Right?
RIGHT?!
(Several inquisitive chirping sounds.)
Salas (V): ("FUUUUCK!" drawn out for 37 seconds.)
(Incessant clanging.)

Project Thökk Transmission #589

(A low, mechanical ambient hum echoes against the cave walls.)
Salas (M): They're in the water.
(The hum regularly intensifies, like a pulse.)
All the people that the Scrapes took…
I'm in one of the bottom-most rooms of Trow's cave complex. Still no sign of the lady in question.
(A Scrape vocalizes.)
Salas (V): Yes, yes, I see you, shut up, I'll kill you in a minute.
Salas (M): I'm standing on a rocky catwalk over the water. I touched it. It has the consistency of half-formed Jello. Touching it made me sleepy… I almost fell in.
This water has a bright cyan color to it. Glowing. I'm positive that this is the anesthetic the Scrapes put on their blades.
Trow: You humans would call it "suspended animation."
Salas (M): Shit on a sugarplum!
(Salas rapidly turns around.)
Trow: Don't worry about the sleepers. It's a temporary solution, but someday I'll make it permanent.
Salas (M): She looks like Feck, but she's skinnier and wears these ornate blue robes. Body's just a quarter as tall, but the feathers are twice as long. And her eyeliner's on point, too — FOCUS!
She's holding this flat brass rectangle like a clipboard — but almost hugging it, too, like it's also a teddy bear. If that doesn't turn out to be the "Plate of Remembrance" thing, I swear I'm gonna tear my own brain out and throw it off the cliff.
Trow: Very curious. That sword - was it a "finder" trinket, or was it given to you by VUUOU?
Salas (V): What the hell's a Voo-oh?
Trow: I see.
Salas (V): I said, what the hell's a—
Trow: You were heard. I'm not convinced that you would hear.
Salas (V): (Sarcastic chuckle.) Why not, because I'm one of those ugly humans ruining Kegelapan?
Trow: Is that what they told you I think?
(Wet noises; Trow gently touches the water.)
Trow: This substance… it's produced from the Dreamer's lingering memories of peaceful days. It swaddles the humans in an embrace of unconditional love and slumber, shielding them from a world that longs only for their torment.
Salas (V): The only things tormenting them were your Scrapes.
Trow: The humans had to be taken here by force. It's not like they'd agree to my protection. They're too focused on the heap of food on their plate to know that they're being fattened up for slaughter.
Salas (V): You have exactly ten seconds to say something that makes any sense.
Trow: As you wish. You were after this, weren't you?
Salas (M): She's indicating the plate.
Salas (V): Is that the Plate of Remembrance?
Trow: Yes. Would you like to see it?
Salas (V): Sure.
(A cracking noise, followed by a sheet of metal vibrating. The plate clatters on the ground.)
Salas (M): BITCH you did NOT just throw the — my eye. Fuck. Please tell me the sight regenerates —
(Splash.)
Salas (M): …aaand I'm in the anesthesia water.
Trow: This is for your own good, Dr. Salas. Close your eyes. I will protect you.
(The sound of splashing gradually slows down.)
Salas (V): (Sleepily) I swear to God I will bite off your dinosaur tits.
Trow: Open your mouth. Let it in. Feel its warmth.
(The splashing stops.)
(Silence.)
Salas (M): Bluff.
Salas (V): The Scrapes killed him.
Trow: Don't speak. It's past your bedtime.
Salas (V): They killed Feck. They… off the cliff… he's gone —
(Sounds consistent with drowning.)

Project Thökk Transmission #590

(Wet slapping noises. Trow hyperventilates.)
Salas (V): Ow. Ow. Okay. I'm up. I'm up. Stop it.
Trow: They did not destroy Feck. They did not destroy him. They did not. If he is injured beyond the Dreamer's regeneration, the Scrapes are programmed to rescue him and bring him back here immediately. It is objectively impossible for Feck to be thrown into the Murk by my Scrapes. If he has, then my Scrapes have been infected and all of this was for nothing. Tell me you are lying. Tell me you are lying RIGHT NOW!
Salas (V): Bitchsayswhat?
Trow: What?!
(Thump consistent with two foreheads meeting at a dangerous velocity.)
(Trow falls on the catwalk. Salas grabs the plate.)
(Rapid footsteps. Trow's voice fades into the distance.)
Trow: Salas, if you return that plate right now I will tell you everything. In plain words. I promise.
(More rapid foosteps.)
Trow: …please?!
(7 minutes of continuous running.)
(Salas pants, resting for a moment.)
Salas (M): What's so special about this tablet anyway?
…
Wow… it's the Ten Commandments… transliterated into Upper Bullshitonian. Maybe Lord Vee will know what it means.

- [Close]

@

+ plate_of_remembrance_translated.rtf

- [Close]

IF YOU CAN READ THIS…
TRAUFEK AM I, FORMER SAGEBEAST OF THE COURT OF MUZD.
IF YOU ARE UNFAMILIAR: MUZD OF THE EVERKILN IS THE FOURTH PRINCE OF CORBENIC, PATRON ETERNAL OF FLAME, ART, AND CONSTRUCTION, SECOND OLDEST OF THE SEVEN PRINCES.
LONG HAVE I YEARNED FOR HIS GENTLE HAND UPON MY FEATHERS.
•••••
I AM DEAD.
SAGEBEASTS ARE NOT MEANT TO DIE. AS SUCH, MY AFTERLIFE IS AN ETERNAL SLUMBER IN THE FLEETING REALM OF MORTALS.
I WAS MURDERED BY SERVANTS OF THE PARASITE, THE FORSAKEN EIGHTH PRINCE.
THE PARASITE IS TORTURE AND PERVERSION GIVEN FLESH, THE ARBITER OF BAPTISM-IN-ROT.
THE PARASITE IS REVILED THROUGHOUT CORBENIC.
HE ENVIED THE RESPECT GARNERED BY THE SEVEN PRINCES, AND AS SUCH, SOUGHT TO DESTROY WHAT THEY HELD DEAR.
•••••
MANY OF THE PARASITE'S VICTIMS, MYSELF INCLUDED AMONG THEIR COUNTLESS NUMBERS, WERE AVENGED BY THE THRICE-MOON ARMIES OF THE SEVENTH PRINCE, JALAKÅRA.
THE PARASITE IS DEAD, AND SO IS HIS KINGDOM.
THE PARASITE IS DEAD, AND IN DEATH, HE FOUND ME.
THE PARASITE IS DEAD, AND IN FINDING ME, HE ENSLAVED ME.
THE WORLD YOU SEE IS A DREAM SPAWNED FROM THE PARASITE'S CONTROL OF MY IMAGINATION. THE PARASITE WISHES TO USE THIS DREAM TO RECREATE HIS FALLEN KINGDOM.
•••••
EVERY SAGEBEAST HAS A THREEFOLD BRAIN.
THE FIRST BRAIN: IMAGINATION AND FREE WILL.
IT IS NAMELESS; THE PARASITE HAS TAKEN IT FOR HIS OWN.
THE SECOND BRAIN: REASON AND LOGIC. HER NAME IS TRAU.
SHE TOILS FRUITLESSLY TO FREE ME.
THE THIRD BRAIN: EMOTION AND INSTINCT. HIS NAME IS FEK.
HE KNOWS NOT THE DAMAGE HE DOES.
•••••
I MUST AWAKEN. I MUST AWAKEN. I MUST AWAKEN.
END THE DREAM. END THE DREAM. END THE DREAM.
MAKE IT STOP. MAKE IT STOP. MAKE IT STOP.
•••••
I CAN GIVE YOU NOTHING IN RETURN. BUT MUZD WEEPS FOR ME, AND HE ALWAYS SETTLES HIS DEBTS.
I CARE NOT IF THE PARASITE IS PUNISHED FOR WHAT HE HAS DONE TO ME.
I ASK ONLY THAT YOU PRY HIM FROM MY HEAD.
AND WHEN YOUR WORK IS DONE,
LET ME SLEEP.

- [Close]

@

+ Project Thökk Logs, Part 2 of 2 [abridged]

- [Close]

Project Thökk Transmission #872

Salas (M): It's so messed up when I think about how much has changed.
If I had to pinpoint when everything got irrevocably weirder, I'd say it was about seven months ago when I gave Vee the Plate of Remembrance.
I'm gonna try to recap, just so I make sure I still have the story straight.
Vee went batshit with excitement about this discovery. It was like I'd just found the Ark of the Covenant. But he wouldn't elaborate on why the plate was important, he just said some crap like "this is big, and when something's big, we've got to get people discussing it."
He got everyone Beaconridge together for a huge meeting in the square. Feck was there too - we had front-row seats to Vee's speech. There was some jeering when people saw Feck in the city borders, but it subsided once Vee gave a single order to knock it off. (It makes me wonder how much of this bullshit Feck has to deal with can be directly attributed to Vee only helping him when it's convenient.)
He read the contents of the tablet like it was storytime at kindergarten. He was making extra sure that Feck didn't take a look at the hieroglyphs — he didn't say it was a cognitohazard to Feck and/or Trow, but he more or less implied it.
I still don't understand the finer details, but apparently Kegelapan was formed by some kind of immortal creature named "Trowfeck" having a dream. There's some kind of horrible parasite controlling the dream. Also, Feck and Trow are manifestations of two of Trowfeck's brains, and…
Look, controlling the bullshit threshold of what I'm dealing with is above my pay grade.
Whether or not the story's true, there's been three changes going on steadily ever since.

The Scrape attacks — growing fewer and far between. I'm starting to think maybe Trow's about to finally throw in the Towel. (Trowel?)
The people of Beaconridge — person-to-person conflict has been increasing. The story told from the tablet has put the whole town into two factions. It used to be just a few peaceful demonstrations here and there, but now you can't go on day without a full-on brawl breaking out between the Sleepers and the Wakers. And anyone who isn't aligned to either side is hounded day and night by both sides until they pick one.

One side — the "Wakers" — is led by Dr. Nicolescu. Some of them are afraid of the Parasite manipulating and enslaving them. Others think they have a moral and ethical obligation to help Trowfeck out. Either way, they want to wake up Trowfeck from its slumber.
The other side — the "Sleepers" — is led by Wallace the grocer. They insist that if Trowfeck is awoken, that'll mean either everyone dies or their comfortable way of life will be compromised. The Sleepers have the majority.

And finally…

Feck's been growing uneasier by the day. He hardly makes that adorable war howl he used to make, even when he's fighting. I keep trying to get him to tell me what's wrong, but… I don't think he knows, either.

Project Thökk Transmission #1,084

(A riot is heard outside from within in a small hut. The Greek can be heard yelling appeals to restore order.)
Salas (V): This better be important, Vee. I had to wade through half of the shopping district trying to stab me.
Vee: Wa-ooh. Stabbings. Did you repay the favor?
Salas (V): Do you know me?
Vee: Your energy is intoxicating, my friend.
Salas (V): So's the thing I could be cracking open instead of talking to you. Say your piece and leave me alone.
Vee: As you wish. Feck is missing.
Salas (V): What?!
Vee: He broke into my hut, grabbed the Plate of Remembrance, stared at it for under an hour — and by the time I woke up to see him, he stole away with the plate toward the Southern horizon with mortal terror in his eyes.
…in fact, I dare say it's the same terror I see in your eyes now—
Salas (V): Don't patronize me. My Feck's in danger.
Vee: Your Feck? Is there more than one?
Salas (M): JUST KILL ME NOW
Vee: There is a great disturbance in your soul. You wish to scramble off after him haphazardly with little chance of success.
Salas (V): That's the idea, yeah.
Vee: If I could offer an alternative…
Salas (V): Make it quick.
Vee: A brief Esto exercise, to clear your mind.
I know your aversion to Esto. But there's a way to dip your feet into the waters, enough to clear your head, then to leave without completely submerging.
Sit close…
(The sound of Salas sitting cross-legged on a pillow on the floor.)
Esto is the art of radically allowing yourself to exist. The closest thing you humans have is meditation. But that only skims the surface of what it means to accept existence.
Close your eyes, Dr. Salas.
You must take everything the world around you has to offer as a gift. Thank the world for each and every one, no matter how it feels. All misfortune is rooted in resistance to these gifts.
Inhale. Feel the air enter your lungs.
Hold your breath. Feel it remain in your lungs.
Exhale. Feel it leave your lungs.
…You've got that much down, at least.
Now, let's try something different. Something with more questions. Answer them only with your mind.
Inhale. Feel it slither down your throat like prying fingers. How does it taste on every ridge and curve of your windpipe?
Salas (M): The fuck?
Vee: Concentrate!
Hold your breath. Feel it churn. Feel the air beg petulantly to go back home. How much does it sting your clenching chest to keep it contained?
Exhale. Feel its fingernails scrape the lining of your windpipe.
Open your eyes.
(Fabric shifts)
Salas (M): He's… taking off the silk over his right hand. He's had his hand stuck in a mason jar full of cloudy water the whole time. I don't know what to say.
Vee: Then say nothing.
I don't remember how long ago I put my hand in this jar. In years, I'd put it in multiples of a hundred.
This water was once crystal clear. Now, who can say what it's become? I dissolve a little more every day. The water seeps into my skin and takes whatever little particles it desires. It's a snowglobe of flesh. Because through the unending pain and disgust, every irrelevant thought falls away. Only the most immortal positivity survives.
Comfort is just another addiction. That's what is really trying to enslave you.
In order to truly be free, you must allow yourself to exist.
You must allow yourself to rot.
(Rapid footsteps.)
Where are you going, Dr. Salas? I was just getting to the best part…

Project Thökk Transmission #1,085

Salas (M): FUCK THIS TOWN.

Project Thökk Transmission #1,410

Salas (M): I lost count of the days I've been out here. It's a godsend that Feck has such pointy and distinguishable feet. He left miles upon miles of tracks in the dirt. You'd think it was a cartoon. But three little spiky toes leaving triangular spots in the dirt has taken me this far.
And if I don't find him? Maybe there's another town somewhere in Kegelapan. Somewhere where the smartest human isn't a cult leader trying to make moonshine out of his own skin.
Speaking of Vee, this sword that he gave me was wonderful against the Scrapes, but it's dog shit against everything else. I saw some new animals in the southward trek. Particularly some five-legged reptilian antelopes. I figured they looked the tastiest.
The sword cuts like butter. Clarification: it cuts like it's a stick of butter. Even with all my kendo training, it's little more than a very thin club.
I killed exactly one lizard-antelope with this stupid thing. Turns out they taste like waxy ashes. At least this crooked horn I got cuts better, so I ended up throwing the sword in a stream.
I'm convinced that Vee gave me a sword that the Scrapes are allergic to on purpose. If he did that, he could have given everyone a sword like this, and the whole "we're the only ones who can fight" business was bullshit.
How much has Vee been manipulating us? And why?
He's been around here since "the dream" started.
If I didn't know any better, I'd say Vee's this "Parasite" the tablet was talking about…

Project Thökk Transmission #1,509

Feck: Go away.
Salas (V): I just wanna talk!
Feck: Go away!
Salas (V): …no.
(Feck runs up to Salas. The next 21 seconds are hard to differentiate over the voicemail recording; it's too loud, resulting in heavy static and feedback.)
(Brief pause.)
(Feck sits on the ground, laughing sadly.)
Feck: Still a warrior. You didn't even flinch.
Salas (V): Why did you leave?
(Feck grumbles.)
Salas (V): Was it something I did?
(He grumbles louder, but with a twinge of melancholy.)
Feck: Is that what I made you believe? The talk-food mind makes such lie-noises when it's starving for information. It's not your fault at all, Melyah. You're the only talk-food I miss from that stupid gather-place.
(The ruffling of smooth metal against feathers is heard.)
Salas (M): The Plate…
Feck: You heard the stay-words that were put here, right?
Salas (V): Yeah. I was there with you when it was being read. …that's really what it says, right? Vee wasn't bullshitting us, was he?
Feck: Mm. That's what it says in talk-food words, and every word is true. But this is written in Feck-and-Trow letters. When my kind sees these letters, we're forced to remember.
Salas (V): Remember what?
(Ten seconds of loaded silence.)
Feck: Listen, Melyah. You can stay out here with me for a while. If you like.
Salas (V): I don't think I'd mind that—
Feck: BUT! Only if you listen to my truth-story.
(Something wooden and metal clatters against the dirt.)
Salas (M): …did he just pull a whole-ass German zweihänder out of his feather mane?
Feck: That was one of my finder treasures. I tried to hide it from you. It was gonna be… for your birthday.
(Thumping sound analogous with Salas's pulse sounding in her ears.)
Salas (M): FUCKING STOP THAT I AM A WOMAN OF SCIENCE THIS IS PLATONIC
Feck: Guess it'll be more useful this way. If my intuition is correct — and it's never not — you're gonna get really hate-anger at me when I finish my story. You'll probably wanna use it on me to stand-still-hunt a lot.
Salas (V): Okay, Feck? Usually I can understand your hyphenations, but…
Feck: Stand-still-hunt is when I stand still and you do hurt-things to my flesh.
Salas (M): Bruh…
Salas (V): Okay. Well, if you're ready for me to prove you extremely wrong, tell me your story.

Project Thökk Transmission #1,510

(A crackling campfire.)
Feck: To begin with, Vee is… it's short for "Prince VUUOU of the Murk." You may have heard Trow or the Greek talking about him.
VUUOU is the "Parasite." A long time ago, VUUOU lived in this place called Corbenic. He was a god — the weakest and tiniest god of his seven brothers.
Being weak on its own isn't a bad thing - if food weren't weak, we wouldn't have anything to eat. But VUUOU's only strength stemmed from cruelty.
And he didn't even need to be cruel for the sake of his job, like some of the other Princes. He didn't have any patronage over despair or impurity - he was the god of rivers, trees, and cloudy days, completely inoffensive things like that. He was just mean all on his own.
His corner of Corbenic looked just like Kegelapan. It was even called Kegelapan. But Old Kegelapan was bigger - there were way more cities than just Beaconridge.
Old Kegelapan was a very bad place to live. Every talk-food that lived there was kidnapped from some other part of Corbenic. VUUOU's agents would spread rumors among the talk-foods to start up civil unrest. And when all the tension and fighting came to a head…
That's when the Murk would overflow, where it would flood Old Kegelapan for a few ages — until VUUOU got bored started over again.
Now, about the Murk… that's the stuff in the lake at the bottom of the cliff. Greenish-brown-black liquid. It's the kind of poison even gods stay away from. One drop of Murk lands on your skin, and everything happens to that patch of skin at once. Mushrooms and plants grow from you. You age a million years and regress into a glob of primordial sludge at the same time. New species of animals are born from you. You feel it all in excruciating detail.
VUUOU lived deep in the Murk. He loved the way it made him feel bad.
This was all part of VUUOU's think-style. "Esto." It's all rooted in the idea that if a talk-food feels nothing but horrible forever, then sooner or later, they'll start feeling nothing but good forever. VUUOU thought his cycle of tortures made the talk-foods happier and smarter.
…I don't get it either.
When VUUOU came into control of the dream and made this New Kegelapan, he did the same thing.
Everyone lives in the illusion of safety for a while. Once someone takes the Plate of Remembrance from Trow, everything starts spiraling out of control. Just when the talk-foods least suspect, the Murk overflows and turns Kegelapan into a lake…
Then Trowfeck wakes up.
But VUUOU's got his string-hands wrapped Trowfeck's head-guts. He can make Trowfeck go back to sleep.
And when he does, the talk-foods start over, forget everything that's ever happened, and it all starts up again. I forget too. Only VUUOU and my sister remember.
I do not know how many times this cycle has repeated itself. But VUUOU will keep doing this forever until he's satisfied. He'll never be satisfied. This isn't his Old Kegelapan, and it never will be - but VUUOU will forever think he's just one more cycle away from seeing his old kingdom again.
Salas (V): And what about you?
Feck: Huh?
Salas (V): Where's this part where you're so horrible that I'm going to have to fight you about it?
(20 seconds of silence. Feck sighs heavily.)
Feck: VUUOU can only do so much on his own. He's got one string-hand wrapped around me, too. And when the talk-foods start to catch on to his plans and try to fight back…
That's when the instincts I hate-anger so much kick in.
I'm VUUOU's reluctant enforcer.
The poor talk-foods — I've killed and smashed and squished and tore and bled them more times than I can count. Sometimes I tore the limbs off the talk-foods and put them back on in the wrong places, regenerating them into pain-statues. Ate them. Gargled their juices.
I know I'm not the one in control, but I feel like there's something else I could do-think to make sure it never happens again. And I hate myself when I start to love-feel the pain-noises they make.
And worst of all?
The Murk can't flow over the cliffs without me crying out to give it permission.
(After a brief pause, Feck's knees land on the grass gently.)
Feck: …ready when you are.
(Salas makes no audio indication of picking up a sword.)
Salas (V): Relatable.
Feck: What is "relatable?"

Project Thökk Transmission #1,511

Salas (V): [REDACTED]
Feck: You tried to get them to stop, right?
Salas (V): [REDACTED]
Feck: So what happened to [REDACTED]?
Salas (V): [REDACTED]
Feck: …by MUZD and His Black Hammer.
Salas (V): Yeah. Wanna know what else I've had to do for the Foundation?
Feck: If you like. But I doubt it's at all comparable to the horrors of what I have done.
Salas (V): [5 MINUTE 35 SECOND AUDIO SEGMENT EXPUNGED BY ORDER OF O5 COMMAND]
Feck: …well, maybe a little.
Salas (V): Heh. I'm just gettin' started.

Project Thökk Transmission #1,512

Salas (V): Anything else?
Feck: Does it make a difference? Considering all I've done, I wouldn't be in any position to say any be-ashamed-please words at you for it.
Salas (V): And that's why I'm not currently in the process of kicking your ass.
(Feck chuckles.)
Feck: I appreciate it. But… I still feel like I should receive some sort of punishment.
Salas (V): Hmm.
…
(Pow.)
Feck: Hey.
(Pow. Bap. Slap. Smack.)
Feck: Stop that.
Salas (V): Stop what?
Feck: Hitting me!
(Pow.)
Salas (V): Thought you said you wanted punishment. Don't you pussy out on me now. Let's fuckin' go!
(Smack-smack-smack-smack. Slam. Pop.)
Feck: …my turn.
(BOOM.)
(Eight seconds of silence.)
Feck: Melyah? …did I hurt you?
Salas (V): Bitch, you're gonna.
(Crack. Feck vocalizes in pain.)
(Salas starts laughing. Feck does as well.)
(Several minutes of lighthearted sparring. Feck's war-howl returns.)
(At the 2 minute 55 second mark, it suddenly stops.)
(The ear-thumping sound from earlier returns, with even greater intensity…)

Project Thökk Transmission #1,513

[REDACTED WITH PREJUDICE]67

Project Thökk Transmission #2,010

Salas (M): Pro: the new house is almost done.
Con: Reverse-engineering homesteading techniques from vague memories took way longer than I thought. It's been how many years since we started this house, now? Three?
Pro: We found some wanderers out here. Some people who got (understandably) fed up with Beaconridge a few years back. They've pitched in with our house, and we're pitching in with theirs — it's only a handful of people, but we'll have Beaconridge 2.0 set up at some point or another.
It's nice to have human friends again. I love the piss out of Feck, but if he's gonna be the only person I ever talk to, we'll drive each other completely batshit.
Con: I still have no idea how to turn SCP-2922 off.
And that is on the agenda. Look, I'm sorry, but there's a nonzero chance that every transmission from here on out is gonna be "I had a real nice day, got drunk as a skunk, my liver regenerated, I fell down next to Feck, we railed each other until we lost consciousness, I went to sleep face-first in his feathers, and for the record, they still smell like daisies and lavender."
Nobody has the stamina to write down the same goddamn thing every time it shows up on voicemail.
Plus, I've been working for the Foundation posthumously just about as long as I've been working in life. And when's the last time I got a paycheck?
…
Feck's taking his sweet-ass time coming home from hauling that lumber. Maybe he ran into a Scrape or two on the way back. There's still a few of those bastards lurking around on autopilot.
I think I'll wait outside for him. Fresh air would be nice.
(Footsteps. She opens a door.)
(Crackling fires. People screaming.)
…I'm gonna go ahead and assume Ted's oil lamp design didn't pan out.
The Greek: Hello.
Salas (M): JESUS FUCKING BAMBI OVER HIS MOTHER'S GRAVE
Salas (V): Uh, hi.
The Greek: I don't think I ever told you: I'm not a real person. I'm a replica of Prince VUUOU's most faithful disciple. The real "Greek" is our recruiting agent on Earth.
Salas (V): Great. Cool. Don't care. Why is my village on fire?!
The Greek: I don't think I did a very good job.
(Rapid footsteps over the hut's dirt floor. She grabs the zweihänder from earlier.)
(Wet squelching noises. Steam. Flames. Salas vocalizes in extreme distress.)
Salas (M): He's drooling. It's green. Is that the Murk? Is that the fucking Murk?!
The Greek: Open your mouth.
(Sounds of a struggle. Salas yells in anger through a closed mouth and teeth.)
(The Greek vomits.)

Project Thökk Transmission #2,011

(Wooden coach wheels rumble against a stone road. Feck snarls through a gagged mouth.)
(Her words are slurred.)
Salas (M): I can't see no more.
Ran my fingers over my eyes.
…
Mushrooms.
Two tangled mushroom bouquets.
The Murk down my throat… It made a milkshake outta my guts.
…
Maybe I can die here after all.
This ain't Corbenic. Animals die all the time.
Maybe I'm just not tryin' hard enough.
(She beats the back of her head against a wooden surface 37 times.)
(She weeps.)
(Feck stops snarling. He whimpers.)

Project Thökk Transmission #2,012

(Incense crackles in censers. Feck growls pitifully.)
(Vee prays to an audience of unidentified voices. Audio analysis has detected the heavily distorted tones of some of the townspeople of Beaconridge. The distortion is analogous to severe throat infections.)
Vee: Through fleeting peace, adversity is born.
To troughs of black discomfort shall you wean,
destroying every temporary smile
and leaving only what is evergreen.
Fiakh Duhazh Esto!
Audience: FIAKH DUHAZH ESTO!
Vee: The gentle arms of Mother Agony
and Father Sessile Fermentation thus
shall purify us through impurity
and sip the wine of our collective dust.
Fiakh Duhazh Esto!
Audience: FIAKH DUHAZH ESTO!
Vee: In terms of ancient days, damnation's grasp
shall rectify all ye who errant were.
In terms of latter days, unpleasantness
is just a part of building character.
Fiakh Duhazh Esto!
Audience: FIAKH DUHAZH ESTO!
Vee: No living thing is safe from misery.
Each smile and laugh, designed from birth to end.
So if it's bound to happen anyway,
treat everything that eats you as a friend!
Fiakh Duhazh Esto!
Audience: FIAKH DUHAZH ESTO!
Vee: Pain is proof that you exist.
Audience: WE ARE GRATEFUL THAT WE EXIST!
Vee: Allow yourselves to exist!
Audience: WE ALLOW OURSELVES TO EXIST!
Vee: Ferment your body and cleanse your soul!
Audience: WE GIVE NATURE FULL CONSENT!
(Footsteps, approaching closer.)
Vee: Waa-ooh! It's taking you two a little longer than the others to get adjusted. And that's okay! A longer runway means a farther flight. …that is how planes work, isn't it?
Salas (V): Eat shit and die.
Vee: (Tiny gasp) That's great! First you kick off the most chaotic period of this cycle's history, and just as a little extra gift, you made me uncomfortable just now.
I'll have to remember your contributions for the next cycle, Dr. Salas. You're just the kind of rogue element we've needed to raise the level of discord in a pinch. I didn't even think about giving Feck a noisy little concubine.
(Feck growls.)
Feck, my friend! Let's not delay even a second longer. Unbridle him.
The Greek: Yes, master.
(A belt buckle clicks.)
(Feck gnashes his teeth. Splattering. Torn muscle.)
The Greek: Seriously?
Vee: Um… Feck? That's not the real Greek, remember? He can't feel pain. It would be nice if he could, though! Then he could join us.
(More gnashing.)
Feck: (Roar.)
Vee: Get it out of your system yet?
Feck: Yes.
Vee: Good. Well — once you're done saying your goodbyes to Dr. Salas here, I'm sure you're familiar with the way to summon the —
Feck: Bitch talk-says what at me?
Salas (M): Close enough.
Vee: What?
(Feck headbutts Vee. Sounds of a struggle.)
Feck: You hurt Melyah! My flood-scream is ABOLISHED FOREVER!
Vee: Feck, I don't know what you're doing, but I don't like it. Do it harder.
Feck: No talking! You are no longer talk-food!
(Chomp.)
…
(Loud, wet chewing.)
Salas (M): Did this motherfucker just bite Vee's head off?
…
Huh. That was easy.
(Crackling bones. Feck gargles large amounts of liquid.)
Feck: Bad food… bad food…!
Salas (V): Feck!
(He speaks with two voices at the same time.)
Feck/Vee: Let's try this again.
Salas (V): Oh, fuck no.
(Approximately 3 minutes of an intense struggle.)
Feck/Vee: Now stay there. I have work to do.
(Footsteps leading away.)
(Feck/Vee starts howling in a strange, trilling language. It echoes over the cliff.)
(Salas's voice is extremely weak.)
Salas (M): Do I still have to record this?
(A sound like rushing water in the distance.)
I know that wasn't Feck. He would never.
He just…
He just nailed my body to the ground with sharpened fenceposts. Fifteen of them. …no, sixteen.
(The howling continues.)
(It's suddenly cut short by Feck/Vee shrieking in ecstasy.)
(The sound of a stream trickling nearby.)
Isn't there an extraction protocol on this 2922 bullshit?
Get me out.
I'm sorry about all the disciplinary team citations. I'm sorry I kept drinking on the job. I'm sorry I lied about being resistant to amnestics.
Get me out.
Please.
(The hissing of hot water making contact with a cool surface.)
Get me out get me out get ME OUT GET ME OUT GET ME OUT GET ME [Truncated for redundancy]

Project Thökk Transmission #2,290

(17 minutes and 21 seconds of boiling liquid and muffled screams.)

Project Thökk Transmission #2,337

(3 days, 1 hour, 3 minutes, and 11 seconds of boiling liquid and muffled screams.)

Project Thökk Transmission #2,600

(10 minutes and 59 seconds of boiling liquid and muffled screams.)

Project Thökk Transmission #2,834

(5 minutes and 12 seconds of boiling liquid and muffled screams.)
Salas (M): (Unintelligible)8

- [Close]

@

+ Incident-7702-Blue/Black

- [Close]

Addendum 1: Incident-7702-Blue
On 2/10/22, five days after transmissions ended from Project Thökk, a routine cleaning of SCP-2527's9 testing area was interrupted by a phone call…

Incident Log - Incident-7702-Blue
Date: 2/10/22
Time: 10:02 AM EST
<Begin Log>
(Junior Researcher Cliff Daniels is loading a D-class staff member's remains into a body bag toward the northern wall of the testing field. Through his headset, he's connected to SCP-2527-2's operator, Junior Researcher Carl Grodin.)
Daniels: What could even cause these injuries?
Grodin: Funny story. Someone looked into the source code and found a bunch of abilities that TotleighSoft was keeping hidden. Some kind of secret bonus content. Now, Massy can pull someone's limbs apart with telekinesis.
Daniels: No kidding. Who found that?
Grodin: (Chuckles) Your favorite person…
Daniels: You're shittin' me.
Grodin: The very same. Massy was Dr. Salas's little pet project.
Daniels: Don't even remind me of that edgy b —
(A red phone on a wall of the enclosure starts ringing.)
Grodin: …what the hell?
Daniels: Is that for me?
Grodin: That's impossible. That phone goes to the breach desk. It's one-way. …you'd think they'd have taken the ringer out.
(The phone keeps ringing.)
Daniels: I'm assuming that's not gonna go to voicemail…?
Grodin: Pick it up.
(Daniels does so.)
Daniels: Hello?
O5-2: Does the Black Moon Howl?
Grodin: Hoo boy…
Daniels: Uh… only on Bloody Sunday? (Sotto voice) That's what I'm supposed to say, right, Carl?
O5-2: Close enough. To whom am I speaking?
Daniels: Junior Researcher Cliff Daniels, sir.
O5-2: Ah, yes, the one with the annoying voice.
Daniels: You know me?
O5-2: Er, that is, I was undercover. But that's not important. I am sorry to place this burden on your shoulders, but if what I'm about to ask you isn't done five minutes ago, the human race is doomed.
Daniels: What's going on?!
O5-2: I'll explain later. For now, I need you to place this receiver against the side of SCP-2527-1's head. Now.
Daniels: Uh… Carl, this cord only goes so far.
Grodin: I'm on it.
(SCP-2527-1's container automatically opens. It teleports forward one three-by-three-square-meter space at a time. Note: its optional voice module is enabled.)
SCP-2527-1: OUT OF BOCKS NORTH NORTH NORTH NORTH NORTH NORTH NORTH LOOK LEFT WEST WEST LOOK RITE NORTH NORTH LOOK LEFT MASSY STAY IN PLACE I IS VEREY GOOD AT SITTNIG AWAITING ISNTRACTIONS THERE IS GRASS BELBOW ME WOOD U LIK TO OFFAR A SACKRIFISE
(Daniels places the receiver against the side of 2527-1's head.)
Daniels: Like this?
O5-2: Is it against his head?
Daniels: Yes.
O5-2: Are you positive? I can only do this once.
Daniels: Yes, sir.
O5-2: Great, thanks. Keep it held there until I tell you to move it. TotleighSoft debug mode vocal activation password: 49 54 20 4d 45 2c 20 43 41 43 4b 21.
SCP-2527-1: CONFARMED WELCUM GOLRIOUS TOTLEIGHSOFT CEO P HUDSON GOCK
Grodin: Uh, Cliff? That wasn't from my input.
SCP-2527-1: YOU BE QUIYAT WHEN MASSYS COPMUTER DADDY IS TALKIG
O5-2: Massy, connect to the staff wi-fi. Network name S59staff, password "Fhhshsi,aig2hc,thiaE!"
SCP-2527-1: MASSY HAS OPNED DOOR INTO WIFEY
O5-2: I'd like you to purchase the "Souls Teal" DLC.
SCP-2527-1: DOWNLARDED INSTLALED
O5-2: Steal my soul.
(There's a brief explosion of arcing electricity from the phone. Daniels is knocked away. The phone is destroyed.)
SCP-2527-1: MASSY HAS EATED YOR SOL OMNOMNOM DELISH NUTRISH
Daniels: The fuck was that?!
SCP-2527-1: PERMISHUNS GRANTED DIRECT PIELOTING MOAD ENGAGGED
(SCP-2527-1 vibrates violently for 32 seconds. When it ends, it speaks with a hybrid of "Massy's" voice and Dr. Amelia Salas's voice.)
Salas: [YOU IS RIDESHARE MASSYS BRANE] Wish I could say it's good to be back. Thanks for the assist, Cliff. As much as I can't stand you, I do hope you know you've just freed me from… [MASSY CALCULATE TIEMYEARS] Seriously?! That long? Fuck.
Daniels: Where's O5-2?
Salas: That was a composite voice from memories of speaking with him. Could you do me a favor?
Daniels: Fuck no, you lied to me!
Salas: DLC pack 3 function "scream of intimidation", engage. [BE INTIMIDATED BE INTIMIDATED BE INTIMIDATED BE INTIMIDATED AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA]
(Daniels covers his ears.)
Daniels: FINE FINE WHAT WHAT WHAT?!
Salas: [INTIMIDATON SUCSESFUL] First off, where's the current location for SCP-7702?
Daniels: How would I—
Salas: I wasn't asking you. [HACKIG BOOYAN COMPOTER MASSY FIND COW ORDS] There, good. Tell the Project Buyan team to get as many civilians away from there as possible by midnight. Do you understand?
Daniels: Yes.
Salas: …no, you don't. Carl?
Grodin: Uh, yeah. Loud and clear.
Salas: Thanks. For the record, Carl, I maintain the sentiment from the "uncensored opinions" transmission that you have the cutest butt in Site-59.
Grodin: Uhhh…
Salas: You have until midnight. I'll stick to areas where I won't be seen. Morituri te salutant. [NORTH NORTH BRAKE WAL WAL IS BORKEN NORTH NORTH NORTH NORTH NORTH NORTH…]
(2527-1 moves further north, bashing through the wall and escaping Site-59. The breach alarm sounds.)
<End Log>

Addendum 2: Incident 7702-Black
At 12:00 AM EST on 2/11/22, SCP-2527-1 broke into the provisional containment area for SCP-7702. Evacuations were not made as per SCP-2527-1's request, but the population density of the area was sparse anyway, being mostly a wetland preserve.
A seven-hour altercation ensued between SCP-2527-1 and a reptilian entity originating from SCP-7702, which has since been labeled SCP-7702-D…

Incident Log - 2/11/22

(Onsite security team members F. Engels and D. Rosa sit outside the mesh gate to the provisional containment area. This is taken from body camera footage from a third member onsite, W. Woolsey.) All are in undercover attire.
Engels: So apparently something's supposed to happen at midnight?
Rosa: Define "something."
Engels: All I know is some jackass at Site-59 was all "waaah we gotta get all the people away from 7702 guuuys" and was making a big fuss about it.
Woolsey: But did they specify what was going to happen?
(Engels shrugs.)
Engels: Look, it's Site-59. These are the same guys who sound breach alarms whenever the toilets are broken.
Rosa: Didn't Site-59 just have a breach earlier today?
Engels: Now that you mention it, yeah. Something about a statue.
Rosa: Kind of like that thing?
Salas: […NORTH NORTH NORTH NORTH NORTH NORTH NORTH NORTH…]
(Woolsey turns around. He switches on his flashlight. SCP-2527-1 is rapidly approaching in a straight line from the south.)
Woolsey: What the hell?!
Engels: Get out of its way! MOVE!
(SCP-2527-1 crashes through the gate.)
Salas: [NORTH NORTH NORTH MASSY IS SMATCH GATE UNDER STOANE FOOT GATE BORKEN SUCH STRENGF NORTH NORTH NORTH NORTH…]
Rosa: Wait, this all adds up. This thing's after 7702.
Woolsey: Engels, get backup. Rosa, call HQ. I'll try and get this on film…

[Truncated for brevity]

(SCP-7702-B reclines on the chair in its Cajun appearance. SCP-2527-1 stands before it.)
(Woolsey has switched his body cam input to a camcorder with a long-distance microphone.)
SCP-7702-B: Alors, what's all this ruckus about "North North North?" I ain't seen yanks around here in ages, cher sphinx!
Salas: How's it goin', Greek.
SCP-7702-B: Hold up, you think I'm Grecien?
(7702-B spreads its hands to clap.)
You done got it so wrong, I oughta to give you a round of applau —
Salas: [MASSY USE TELEKANESISIS]
(7702-B's hands spread apart by force. They suspend him in the air on floating rings of light.)
(His voice changes.)
The Greek: That's new. All right, who sent you this time? Was it JALAKÅRA?
Salas: Traufek the Sagebeast. Take me to him. NOW.
The Greek: Your voice is familiar…
Salas: DO IT. [MASSY IS BRUSTIG WITH ANGERY]
(He grins wryly.)
The Greek: I can't do it if I'm hanging here, now can I?
Salas: [MASSY GO SHRONK]
(His arms suddenly shrink into charred, wrinkled lumps under his sleeves. He screams, falling out of the rings.)
Salas: [HANDS SUCKSESSFLY ENSMALLD]
(He laughs.)
The Greek: Hurt me more! It brings me closer to the meaning of life! Fiakh! Duhazh! Esto!
Salas: Fuck this. [MASSY TERN U TO ROCK]
(His flesh turns grey, then crumbles.)
[ENEMYS WORLLD SUCKSESSFULY ROCKD GITAR SOLO]

[Truncated for brevity]

(Six agents (Alpha through Foxtrot) of Local Task Force Fehu-17 "Gator Tots" have converged around SCP-2527-1 with guns drawn. Woolsey has approached more closely.)
(SCP-2527-1 paces around the shack leading into SCP-7702-A, with "Massy" announcing the directions along the way.)
Salas: VUU-OUUU! [FACE LEFT FACE LEFT EAST EAST EAST EAST] I DIDN'T COME ALL THIS WAY JUST FOR YOU TO NOT ANSWER THE FUCKING DOOR! [FACE LEFT FACE LEFT WEST WEST WEST WEST STOMP IN PLAEC AGGRASIVELY]
Alpha: Please stop yelling.
(2527-1 suddenly stops.)
Salas: [FACE LEFT FACE LEFT]
[FACE RIGHT FACE RIGHT]
Huh.
[FACE LEFT]
I was too mad to even see you guys. Fuckin' tunnel vision up in here. How's it goin'?
Charlie: We need you to come back to Site-59.
Salas: Yeah, yeah, you can have Massy back when I'm done with him. Reminds me, though. [FACE LEFT FACE LEFT] See this barn? There's something real messed up in there. I can guarantee you that it's minutes, even seconds away from killing at least one of you guys.
Foxtrot: For the love of God, shut up and get in the crate.
Salas: [FACE LEFT FACE LEFT] No. [FACE RIGHT FACE RIGHT] Anyway, if it kills one of you, could you do me a favor? If you see anyone coming up to you in the desert with three crescent moons on their armor, could you tell them that you were killed by a manifestation of "VUUOU of the Murk?"
Bravo: If we do that, will you go back to Site-59?
Salas: Yes! After I'm done with—
(The platform starts shaking violently. A booming voice emanates from within the barn.)
SCP-7702-D: Wake up, slave. We have company.
Salas: [MASSYS ANGERY HAS RAEACHD CRITICALE MASSY]
(The barn is destroyed from within by a massive explosion.)

[Footage cuts off for 57 minutes]

(The recording resumes. The surrounding forest is on fire. Woolsey can be heard coughing from the smoke.)
Woolsey: Yep… I'm probably gonna die here. At least it won't be boring.
(Jets from MTF Nu-7 "Hammer Down" are heard above, followed by five small explosions. 7702-D grunts with pain as they land.)
SCP-7702-D: HARDER.
Salas: [MASSY FLITE MOADE ENGAGG]
(The camera turns upward. Without any visible source of propulsion, SCP-2527-1 hovers in the air around 7702-D.)
(Only the head and upper neck of 7702-D is visible, revealing it to be a massive, serpentine version of "Feck". When fully coiled, it could just barely have fit inside 7702-A. It has a large and disheveled mane and beard composed of gray feathers. The feathers have grown over its eyes.)
(2527-1 flies around 7702-D, dodging several swipes of its claws. Making high-pitched beeping sounds, 2527-1 launches a stream of smaller, explosive Lamassu statues at 140 rounds per minute.)
Salas: [ENGAG FLITE MODE ORIGINALL SNOUD TRACKS BELIEF IT ORNOT MASSY WALKIG ON ARE I NEVR THOT I COD FILSO FRIII HIII HIIIIIIII]
(Large, retractable fins protrude from the back of 7702-D's neck. They start to glow with heat. The air around 7702-D is heated to the point of flashover. The burning trees in the area burn even brighter. 2527-1 is pushed back across the forest canopy.)

[Truncated for brevity]

(The Sun is rising. The fires have mostly burned out. The wreckage of several Nu-7 helicopters is visible. The camera is fixed on the forest floor; Woolsey's charred corpse is visible in the corner of the frame.)
(2527-1 is still airborne. It has taken heavy damage and no longer bears any resemblance to a Lamassu. The "Massy" voice sputters through heavy distortion.)
Salas: [wh o cod i t t beeee] Just fucking [bel ief itorn oot] DIE! [it s m m a ssyyyy]
7702-D: Look at the mess we've made. I wonder if they'll call in the nukes.
Salas: Shut up and give me Feck back. [alert hit ponts crigtic al di d youo need to tr ry the tt utoornial levell??]
7702-D: He has already forgotten you.
(Wobbling, 2527-1 begins to descend.)
Your love was only here for a moment. But the Murk is eternal.
Since you're on your last legs, I think now's as good a time as any we talked this over like adults.
The fact is, Dr. Salas, I couldn't be prouder of you. Look at where eons of suffering in the Murk took you! You were in Hell so long that you figured out an escape plan. You thought like rocks and dreamed like water, outliving every fleeting thing above and around you, and now… you were strong enough to last this long in a battle with a god.
Do you see now, Dr. Salas? You've accepted the gifts of Esto without even knowing it. Think of what other impossible problems your Foundation could solve if you stopped denying the gift of torment.
I spread growth and ask for nothing in return. And for this, your ilk place me in the same lot as mad sadists like the Scarlet King. Is that fair? Was such generosity any grounds to destroy my kingdom, brother? Yes, I can see your little toy up there. Hello, operator! Give that backstabbing Weaver of yours my regards.
Salas: Who the hell were you talking to just now?
7702-D: No one of any importance. My point is this, Dr. Salas: let me ruin your day, and all of your dreams will come tr—
(Seven screeching noises consistent with Impaler Events10 are heard. 7702-D stumbles over mid-sentence.)
7702-D: Nice to see you too, Jally.
(A sonic boom is heard as an instance of SCP-2578-D rapidly descends onto the scene. It floats to a halt in midair over 2527-1.)
SCP-2578-D: Query: are you the entity designated open quote "the Sphinx or whatever" close quote?
Salas: Oh my God — yes, that's me! Did one of the Fehu-17 guys give you the message?
(7702-D: slowly turns its open jaws toward 2758-D.)
2578-D: Affirmative. Proposal: leave this one to us.
(A small geyser of superheated plasma is unleashed from 7702-D's throat. Half of 2758-D's body flash-melts; the other half falls away, smoking. It lands a few feet away from the camera.)
Salas: WELL, ASS ME IN THE FUCK.
2578-D: Disregard proposal.
7702-D: Adorable. One last brawl for the road, "Melyah?"
Salas: (Incoherent yelling in rage.)
(2527-1 charges blindly through the air toward 7702-D.)
(7702-D slaps it downward. A pillar of dust flies upward from the impact site. 7702-D chuckles.)
7702-D: I just remembered; there is still one question for which you have no answer.
Salas: (Unintelligible)
7702-D: It's this: "what was the Greek's little dream-poison made out of in the first place?"
Salas: (Unintelligible)
7702-D: Here, let me show you.
(7702-D rears back, standing fully upright. Its arms move toward the crotch area. It is unclear what is taking place through the scorched treeline, but rushing water is heard. 7702-D groans with satisfaction.)
Taste familiar?
2578-D: Nanite recovery 54% successful; maximum recovery threshold reached. Primary weapon back online. Engaging…
(The drone's tail cannon moves into place, aiming at 7702-D's forehead area.)
(The audio cuts out from the sound of the resulting Impaler Event.)
(7702-D roars in extreme pain11. Its paws move up to its forehead, but the paws move away; it's too sensitive to touch. As a result, the feathers around the forehead have been drawn back.)
(A small, black, tumorous protrusion is barely visible between 7702-D's eyes.)
2578-D: RAISING VOLUME FOR CLARIFICATION! PROPOSAL: EXTRACT!
(2527-1, still soaking wet, quivers back into the air.)
Salas: [h p leeft 1 out of <macksimum valyue not fond> mas ssy havin g actifat ed L I M AT BRAE CK TELEKINESISIS ENGAGGED YOU GOT TIHS PLAYER WUN GOPHER IT]
(2527-1 charges for the tumor just as 7702-D begins to recover.)
2578-D: Alert: unit compromised. Destroying remains to deter enemy salvage.
Salas: WAR-FOOD!
2578-D: Please keep back.
(2578-D's remnants explode, destroying the camera's lens and ending the feed.)

Project Thökk Transmission #2,835

(The last fires in the forest sputter out.)
Salas (V): [east] [east] [east] [east]
…
[east]
(A thin, wheedling voice from below…)
VUUOU: WAA-OOH.
Salas (M): The fuck?
VUUOU: STEALING MY KINGDOM ONCE WASN'T ENOUGH, WAS IT, JALLY? I HOPE YOUR MOONS MELT AND POUR DOWN YOUR EARS. THIS IS THE ONLY FORM OF CRUELTY THAT WILL TAKE MY GROWTH NOWHERE.
Salas (M): Holy shit, he sounds like a mouse with emphysema.
VUUOU: LEAVE MY SIGHT FOREVER, PROGRESS-DEFILING MEAT EFFIGY.
Salas (V): Okay. [east] [east] [east]
…wait, can he move?
Traufek: Not at any speed that would matter. His jailers close in, as do mine.
(The voice of a calmer, less-demonically-possessed SCP-7702-D rocks the surrounding soil with its volume.)
Salas (V): You must be Traufek the Sagebeast.
Traufek: That I am. The scent of your life force… one of my brains associates it with nothing. Another wishes it would have come to know this scent under happier circumstances.
Salas (V): Pretty sure you're smelling all your piss I was just bathed in —
Traufek: The third brain cries out to sleep next to you once more.
Salas (V): Feck…
Traufek: The council of three minds within my skull has reconvened at last. But my days of advising the court of MUZD are far behind me. We wish only for one final dream - a dream of a land much like our home. A dream from which we will never again awaken.
What of you, Child of Man? Will you be joining us?
…
Salas (V): You would take me in, knowing all I've done with the Foundation?
Traufek: What you have "done" is that you have set me free. The rest is commentary.
…
Salas (V): Can I ask one more question before I decide?
Traufek: Of course.
Salas (V): Will Feck remember me?
(Traufek chuckles warmly.)
Traufek: That… I do not know.
But I can guarantee you this much: meeting you was the most fun he had in ages. I'm sure he wouldn't mind giving it another try.
…
Salas (V): …well, what are we waiting for?
Traufek: Can you step onto my palm?
Salas (V): [east]
Traufek: Close your mind's eye…

Note: SCP-2527-1
"Just after Incident-7702-Black wrapped up, Daniels and I noticed that a new instance of SCP-2527-1 appeared in its containment crate out of nowhere. And for five seconds, the screen of SCP-2527-2 read "LIFES REMANEING: 98."
- Carl Grodin, Experiment Coordinator for SCP-2527

- [Close]

@

+ SCP-7702 [Final Iteration]

- [Close]

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Item: SCP-7702
Object Class: Safe
Special Containment Procedures: Provisional Containment Area-7702 has been built around SCP-7702-A under the cover of a wildlife research enclosure. SCP-7702-B is contained in a lead-lined metal canister in a standard containment locker at Site-59.
Description: SCP-7702 refers to two organisms contained in the aftermath of SCP-7702-Black. Both specimens are functionally immortal and do not require food or water.
SCP-7702-A is a massive12 bipedal organism with both reptilian and avian features. Any damage inflicted upon SCP-7702-A completely regenerates within a period of five minutes.
SCP-7702-A is in a permanent state of REM sleep. According to intelligence provided by the Three Moons Initiative, this is irreversible.
SCP-7702-B is a tumor-like mass composed of 20 kg of black, waxy flesh. DNA samples extracted from SCP-7702-B have no match with any mundane organism. The only organs visible on the entity are a beaked mouth, three compound eyes, and 42 threadlike pseudopods.
SCP-7702-B is extremely hostile. Seventeen hours of uninterrupted skin-to-skin contact with a living host can result in SCP-7702-B overriding the host's consciousness. However, SCP-7702-B has no other anomalous capabilities, moves at a maximum speed of 0.3 meters per hour, and has a maximum bite strength of 0.4 kg.

Memorandum on SCP-7702-B from the Ethics Committee
SCP-7702-B's containment measures are still under development.
The Ethics Committee hasn't come to this much of an impasse in years. While permanent solitary confinement in a cramped metal canister would be abject cruelty for any other sentient anomaly, 7702-B appears to prefer these conditions.
One researcher even remarked that upon opening 7702-B's canister for routine cleaning, the entity slapped its cleaning tool away and vocalized the words "JOY UNENDING" and "THE TRUTH IS INSIDE ME."
By contrast, all attempts to create a larger and more humane enclosure for the entity have resulted in near-constant shrieks of distress and flailing.
Some have posited that this is an attempt at reverse psychology on the part of a clever prisoner. However, this could have something to do with the philosophy that 7702-B has displayed in the records of Project Thökk - i.e. "rotting" to attain spiritual enlightenment.
If this is true, then we have another problem: the Foundation's strict adherence to the "not a hotel" policy. At the same time, while 7702-B's actions in the past are undoubtedly heinous, the Foundation does not exist as a supernatural criminal justice system.
So we're left at a crossroads:

Do we keep it bottled and allow the enemy to be happy forever through what might secretly be cruelty?
Do we expend additional resources to torture the entity with what might secretly be mercy?
Do we alternate between the two?
Or perhaps there's some fourth option hidden in plain sight?

If Director Naismith were to advise us directly on this matter, it would be appreciated. We've had 12 separate hung referendums about the 7702-B question…

Project Thökk - Final Transmission

Salas (M): I've been lying here in this meadow for the past two months. My eyes have been closed. I've heard a few animals here and there, and the wind has been warm against my nose.
I don't know why I haven't moved. I guess I'm just waiting for the other shoe to fall. Going through as much long-term Murk torture as I have can't be good for the psyche, but I just…
I remember it, but I don't remember feeling it.
Perhaps this was a little bonus from Traufek. …once I leave, I should really start spelling the names the way they were originally. T-R-A-U and F-E-K. It's gonna be hard to get used to.
I wonder what Trau's up to these days. If she's not trying to save Traufek's dream, what sort of work does she have lined up instead?
As for Fek…
I'm not entitled to him. I've gotta have some contingency plan lined up in case he doesn't feel the same way he used to about me. But at the bare minimum, I'm gonna get to see him again at some point — and that'll be more than enough.
…
I remember the first time Dr. Lisle Naismith told me that the world couldn't truly be saved. You could only save a few perfect days, and that was what was truly worth fighting for.
I gave him a lot of shit, but Lisle was one of the handful of genuinely good guys at Site-59. I guess that's why he was in charge.
But if I ever get the chance to see him again (I mean, that'll never happen, but fuck you, this is rhetorical), I'll have to correct him on one minor point: it is entirely possible to save your world, the one that's within your purview.
It's possible even if you've done what I've done, and even if you've been as completely and utterly boned as I have. I was stuck at the bottom of an ocean of caustic filth for over 500 years (still not convinced, but that's what Massy told me), and even then I was able to find a way to improve my situation using only what I had available. If even an idiot like me could do it…
I guess that was the "evergreen" bullshit that VUUOU was on about. But it'll be a cold day in Corbenic before I let him take credit for what Fek and I accomplished.
…
No more waiting. I'm ready to open my eyes.
Fek: Food?
Salas (M): GAAAH WHAT THE FUCK DUDE YOU'RE NOT EVEN AN INCH OVER ME JESUS
Trau: Now what are you doing, Fek?!
Fek: Trau, look over here! I thought this eat-food over here was dead-kill but it moved!
Trau: For the last fucking time, not everything with skin-flesh is—
Salas (V): Actually, I'm talk-food.
Trau: SEE?!
Salas (V): Sorry, guys. Talk-food isn't eat-food.
Trau: Psh. Everyone knows that.
Fek: Wait a moment…
(Footsteps approaching Salas.)
Do you know this talk-food?
(Trau rapidly files through paper in a notebook)
Trau: Actually, I've never cataloged this one before…
Fek: It's a new talk-food. And it knows one of our rules. Has that ever happened before?
Trau: Well, have you considered that maybe it's such a stupidly obvious rule that even a neophyte could understand it?
Salas (V): Yeah. Eating a talk-food always has this big pile of sad about it afterwards, doesn't it?
Trau: (Prolonged gasp)
Fek: Fascinating…
Trau: I am so, so sorry, Talk-Food, but I need you to come with me right now so I can ask you — (checks notebook) — 273 questions for the scroll I'm writing on talk-foodology!
Salas (M): Oh no, she's adorable…
Fek: You're scaring her, Trau. She's new here, remember?
(Fek's voice comes closer; the sound is consistent with being hugged.)
Sorry about my sister — she can be a little go-do-now when she sees something new. But since you're here…
…
Talk-Food?
Salas (M): I'm home.
Trau: …is the talk-food crying? Why is the talk-food crying?!
Fek: Oh, dear. I think maybe she had her heart set on being eat-food.
Trau: Don't be sad, Talk-Food! Here, I can bite you a little if you want…

@

Footnotes
1. Consisting of ████████ having been run through SCP-914's "Very Fine" setting ███ times.
2. Named after a genus of flowers also known as "forget-me-nots."
3. (Pronounced to rhyme with "cow")
4. One of the grocers of Beaconridge. (See Transmission #47)
5. (Pronounced "VOO-oh")
6. "I cannot overemphasize this: unless it's necessary for the purpose of containment, sexual contact with an anomaly will always be wrong, no matter how consensual. Project Thökk will continue, but Dr. Salas has been posthumously demoted to D-class. In addition, given the situation, the draft of her civilian cover obituary has been rewritten to claim that she died from injuries sustained while committing bestiality." - Sasha DiLaurentis, Site-59 Disciplinary Chief
7. "Come on, the obituary's a bit much, don't you think?" - Director Naismith
8. Closest approximation: "See you soon."
9. "Massy's Big Chance," Object Class: Safe. SCP-2527-1 is a stone statue of a Lamassu (an Assyrian guardian deity) with destructive capabilities. SCP-2527-2 is the Commodore 64 text adventure game that controls it. Both were produced by the TotleighSoft corporation.
10. (The few that have been recorded beneath orbit)
11. (While 7702-D's masochistic mindset would make this paradoxical, it is currently believed that the shock of all the pain at once was what truly upset the entity. - Anders Klimt, director of Project Thökk)
12. Length: 520 m from snout to tail, Weight: at least 330,000 metric tons