She lay, crying, in the darkened cell, listening to her brother's screams and the threats of their captors if he failed again.

+ Addendum 3: Field Diary - SCP-2162/Navarro/01

- Re-secure data

Addendum 3: Field Diary - SCP-2162/Navarro/01

30 June 2013:
Met with Agent Green today for an initial briefing on the anomaly. Turns out he used to hunt down reality warpers for the GOC - nice. Not the warmest of meetings then, given my "skillset". God knows why they assigned us both to the skip - I guess the theory is that it's either an experimenting reality bender or an anart project, so it could fit either of our specialties.
But I'm not sure it's as simple as that. It's clear the skip was man-made, but as a piece of art, it's just not very interesting. Simplistic, even juvenile. And the execution feels all wrong. Even if the invisibility was meant to be post-modern, there's no sign of claiming credit for the work - no signature, no announcement. Even terrible artists want the world to know who they are.
An experiment then - a practice effort? I seriously hope we don't see another draft.
2 July 2013:
The ground team traced the likely origin point for the anomaly to the Happy Camp Canyon Park in Moorpark. They located a possible epicentre based on the concentration of deceased wildlife, and found fresh bike tracks in the area.
Starting somewhere isolated does suggest an experiment. Maybe one that didn't go as intended, that got out of hand? And whoever it was panics and rides off. On a mountain bike.
It's got to be a kid.
7 July 2013:
Green and I have been talking to local anartists, asking about new faces. No luck around the northwest of the city, so we moved into central LA. They're a prickly bunch here - we've had a few walk-offs, a drink thrown in my face, and I think one of them almost unleashed some aggressive-looking mobile knitwear at us. I can't imagine trying to fit in here as a kid.
Green's a good interviewer though: knows what to ask, and when to just listen. Turns out one reason things are so tense is that we're not the only interlopers on the scene lately. Apparently some guy called Michael Cavendish has been asking for anartists to help on a project, offering big money on behalf of a rich widow in Beverly Hills. The artists here are far too principled to work for money, of course, and laughed him out of the place. But now their backs are up, so our intrusion is poorly timed.
Michael Cavendish? I'm sure I've heard that name before.
10 July 2013:
Finally, a lead. We found someone who admits to seeing our mystery artist, and has even given us a name: Robert Baker. I was right - he's a kid. We've classified him as PoI-2162-1.
Apparently Robert arrived in LA earlier in the year, and went straight for the anart community, looking to show off his work. Our contact saw him in bars some nights, "wearing ratty old jeans and tennis shoes, barely sipping a beer all evening".
"Mostly people kept their distance - after Cavendish had been so pushy, everyone was wary of newcomers. So he'd sit quietly on his own. Then some notable anartist would show up, surrounded by contemporaries and hangers-on, and he'd suddenly fill with energy. Like an excited puppy, but one that still half-expected a kick. He'd scamper over to them and work up some quick effects - mostly lights and colours, spinning in intricate shapes. Half the time I don't think they even noticed him. Other times some lackey would make a comment, call him a hick or something, and they'd laugh and move on. And he'd just slink back to his table and wait, or wander out looking like he didn't know where to go.
"The funny thing was, some of the stuff he did was all right - basic, but he had talent. He should have tried talking to more of us, or maybe we should have talked to him, but he only wanted to be noticed by the big names."
It feels good to be talking with artists again. Researchers, scientists, they draw conclusions, give you the results of their observations. An artist can tell you more by painting the negative space - showing you other people's reactions and impressions until you see the outline of the person in the centre.
Based on the contact's information, we've even managed to find an address in Reseda. No sign of the PoI, and his housemate wasn't much use, but we have set up surveillance and will intercept his mail.
Our interest in PoI-2162-1 has been noticed, too - our contact pointed out Michael Cavendish, who had been watching us from the corner of the bar. We might need to have a word with him, I suspect.

+ Addendum 4: Recovered Documents

- Re-secure data

Addendum 4: Recovered Documents
On 11 July 2013, Foundation interception protocols obtained a postcard addressed to PoI-2162-1. Text follows:

Hey Goober,
That's awesome news! Well done you. (Meanwhile, you have to get another phone, dude - postcards is cute and all, but I wanna hear this stuff sooner, and text you congrats)
Seriously, though, you should be stoked. Only there a few months, and already someone wants you to work for them? And pays you in advance!? That's the dream. That's exactly why you left. Who cares if the old lady doesn't appreciate your real stuff. Who cares if she doesn't know what bromidic means. Just give her Mitzi Gaynor and get the rest of that sweet cash, baby! :) And maybe she'll tell her rich LA friends about you - who knows where you could end up.
And when you do, you can go back and laugh at those snobs with their stupid art club. You wouldn't join now if they begged you. Just don't forget your little sis when you're famous! I told you things would work out.
Hey, and show me what you're working on, too - I can't come to visit yet (rolls eyes) so photos please.
Love ya,
June-bug
PS - Mom says hi.

The card was postmarked from Muscatine, Iowa on 25 June 2013, but misaddressed and not received until 11 July 2013. Federal database searches revealed driver's licence and social security details for a June Baker, born 1997, residing in Muscatine with her parents, Mr Daniel Baker and Mrs Sharon Baker. June Baker has been designated as PoI-2162-2.

+ Addendum 5: Post-Incident Interview SCP-2162-B/Cavendish/01

- Re-secure data

Addendum 5: Post-Incident Interview SCP-2162-B/Cavendish/01

Interviewed: "Michael Cavendish"
Interviewers: Agent ██████ Green, Agent Daniel Navarro
Date: 12 July 2013
Foreword: Agents Green and Navarro attempted to question PoI-2162-3 ("Michael Cavendish") at a club frequented by anomalous artists. PoI-2162-3 attempted to leave the scene, causing a diversion using tanks of liquid bromine in the PoI's van, together with several items of anomalous technology. PoI-2162-3 was eventually apprehended by Agents Green and Navarro and was brought in for questioning.
<excerpt commences at 35:16>
Agent Navarro: This is becoming boring, Michael. Look, I'm pretty sure you know who we are, and if so, you know that the only way we can help you is if you tell us how you know Robert Barker.
Cavendish: Oh, I know who you two are. The ex-GOC traitor and his fire-magic lap-dog.
Agent Navarro: You think I should singe him again?
Agent Green: I wouldn't bother.
Cavendish: Taking orders from him now, are you, dog? How many of your kind has he killed? How many of your friends?
Agent Navarro: You piece of -
Agent Green: Daniel, just -
Agent Navarro: Keep out of it!
Cavendish: Oh dear, mister agent. Do you think he might burn you too? Do you think he hasn't thought about it?
Agent Green: Fuck you!
Cavendish: Do you think you could get a shot off first? I'm sure you've thought about that. What if you're not quick enough - what will it smell like when you burn?
Agent Navarro: Perhaps you'd like a reminder yourself!
Agent Green: Daniel, don't -
Agent Navarro: DON'T TELL ME WHAT TO DO!
<silence - 5 seconds>
Cavendish: Dear oh dear. It seems you two might have a bit to discuss between yourselves. You don't need me here. And while I've heard all about you, I've never heard of this Robert Baker person. You don't have any basis to keep me here.
Agent Navarro: Except that you just said "Baker".
Cavendish: What?
Agent Green: Yeah, we've just spent the last half-hour carefully saying "Barker". It's an old trick, but there's a reason for that - it's just so effective on people who think they're the smartest guy in the room.
Agent Navarro: Not to mention you were driving a van full of bromine, which forms a coloured gas to visualise the anomaly nicely. And your alias - Michael Cavendish, one of the earliest patrons of anomalous artists? That was a bit obvious, don't you think?
Agent Green: Actually, I've never heard of him.
Agent Navarro: Really? Maybe it's just me.
Agent Green Perhaps. Nice acting, by the way. You almost had me going.
Agent Navarro Thanks. Anyway Cavendish, we know you're involved, so can you get on with telling us? Or not - we've got all night.
Agent Green: Perhaps you could start with Robert Baker.
Cavendish: <silence - 4 seconds> He wasn't like the others. Most of the artists I talked to - once they knew what I wanted them to do, and guessed who I was working for, they'd tell me where to stick it. Sometimes things even got a little nasty, although I don't mind that. But the kid was different. I knew straight away - he looked different. He looked hungry.
Agent Green: Hungry?
Cavendish: Desperate. He wanted approval, wanted someone to tell him how special he was. Hungry for attention, for praise. Also just plain hungry - he was thin as a rail.
Agent Navarro: And you offered him a commission?
Cavendish: He showed me a little of what he could do - the kid had some talent. We made a contract, and I paid him in advance. Never seen anyone get that excited over a few thousand lousy bucks.
Agent Navarro: What happened then?
Cavendish: He messed up, is what. Tried to test it out and got everything wrong. The size, the level of detail, even the composition - it was nothing like the agreed specifications. I mean, I get the bromine shipped at unnecessary risk and he uses a gas that's invisible! It was no use to anyone.
Agent Green: So what, you killed him?
Cavendish: Unlike you, I'm no killer. But I told him that his patron had a schedule, and he had to meet it. And the kid flaked out, tried to run. I had to round him up - along with some incentive to finish his work.
Agent Green: Where is he?
Cavendish: I honestly don't know.
Agent Navarro: Think very carefully. Where is he?
Cavendish: Shit, like I'm scared of you? Only reason I've said anything is I'm dead in any case - you've had me here too long. They'll know.
Agent Navarro: Who, the mysterious patroness? We can protect you from her if you help us.
Cavendish: Her? Ha! You think I work for that old bag? I've never met a member in my life - I've never even set foot in the club! My job is to get the members whatever they want, so if a member wants some old actress' grinning mug to float around her lounge, I find someone who can make it happen.
Agent Navarro: Cavendish, I'm going to ask one more time.
<sound of door opening, Assistant-Director Griffiths enters>
A-D Griffiths: You two. With me - now.
Agent Navarro: Sir, we -
A-D Griffiths: Muscatine team report. This interview is over.
<recording ends>

+ Update - 13 July 2013

- Re-secure data

Update - 13 July 2013: The Muscatine, Iowa field team reported that attempts to contact PoI-2162-2 were unsuccessful. Mr and Mrs Baker advised that June had "gone to see her brother in Los Angeles", but were vague as to the details or timing of the visit. They could not give a date for their last communication with her, or for her expected return. Based on their lack of concern or curiosity, the use of amnestic-related compounds on Mr and Mrs Baker was suspected. On-site tests identified the residue of a substance with effects on memory and perception, previously associated with investigations involving the GoI known as Marshall, Carter, and Dark Ltd.
In light of this information, it was determined (on Assistant-Director authority) that PoI-2162-3 would be amnesticised and released. Agents Green and Navarro requested that PoI-2162-3 remain subject to surveillance, with the hope that he would lead investigators to PoI-2162-1's location or to further contacts. This request was pending at the time of administration of the amnestic.
Upon administration of a standard Foundation Class-B amnestic, PoI-2162-3 suffered what appeared to be a severe anaphylactic reaction, and was pronounced dead by Foundation medical staff at the scene. Post-mortem analysis revealed that the reaction may have been caused by artificially implanted histamine reserves, triggered by the amnestic.

+ Addendum 6: Investigation Closure Order

- Re-secure data

Addendum 6: Investigation Closure Order

From the office of the Assistant-Director, Site-15
Date: 14 July 2013
The investigation into the whereabouts of PoI-2162-1 is hereby closed, due to the presumed involvement of a hostile GoI. Foundation efforts are to focus on containment of the SCP-2162 anomaly, rather than recovery of PoI-2162-1 and PoI-2162-2.
Applications by Agents Green and Navarro to continue the investigation have been refused. A formal protest from Agent Navarro was summarily dismissed. Agents Green and Navarro have been ordered to cease any activities connected to SCP-2162, and have been placed on one week's administrative leave before transfer to subsequent assignments.
Authorised: A-D Griffiths

She lay, crying, in the darkened cell, listening to her brother's screams and the threats of their captors if he failed again. Sometimes she imagined shapes in the blackness, figures coming to save her. But no figures appeared in that perpetual, numbing dark - no-one had come. Would no-one come?


It's Halloween.
When humans follow a pointlessly old tradition of scaring away spirits with badly made costumes.
Alright, fine. We follow pointless traditions too, like crucifying food before consumption during harvest. But at least it doesn't look like a bunch of badly dressed idiots who think they look like monsters asking for sugar door-to-door.
Sigh, fine. We do look like badly made monstrosities sometimes. At least we aren't idiots.
What do you mean the Halkost are sometimes dumb? They occasionally forget to grow eyes and walk into walls and assimilate themselves, but at least I don't do that.
Don't give me that look, I swear that time was an accident.
Although it was a pretty idiotic idea to take that bet, especially one during All Hallow's eve.
Yes, I'm sure you already know how this goes.
__
Humans are idiots, really. I go around with half my body being a constrictor, and nobody bats an eye because it's Halloween. Seriously, nobody even questioned how I moved the thing.
Anyway, I'm here to, I quote, "survey the surrounding area."
I'm pretty sure it's just to get me wondering around a crowded human area to see what would happen. Nothing, apparently. Which is boring, I miss the times humans dug out their own eyes at the mere sight of me. Messy, but they weren't very well-liked humans, anyway.
All I see are candles dedicated to the dead, lining the Church's… well, everything. Walls, floor, tables. And there're children with baskets full of candy. And there're buckets full of apples. I'm sure if I try to fish them out, I'll bite the bucket in half.
It's the start of Allhallowtide, too. I wish we had something like this, but really, we don't have many dead saints. I'll rather not die, thank you very much. Being celebrated for being dead isn't my sort of thing.
Kind of boring here, perhaps I should retur-
Wait a second, now that's an interesting costume.
It has gears seemingly implanted into the arm and face, with a copper-coloured cloak to match. It is most definitely a normal person in Halloween. I mean, there're even ticking noises to match.
Oh darn, he's looking this way. Better let the tail go limp. This is most certainly a normal tail prop. The horns are clearly plastic, nevermind the suspiciously red substance covering it. And time to pull out the emergency apple.
"Excuse m- Oh sorry! I thought you were someone else."
I give a nonchalant reply of: "Hm, oh."
I'm not very good at conversations.
Silence. He's still standing around. I wonder why. Is it that interesting to stand next to a snake-woman with red-stained claws and horns?
Without much thought, I blurt out, "You waiting for someone?"
"Yes, miss. My daughter, you see, said she'll meet me here. Went for a round of trick-or-treating, like all the others. Quite a nice costume you have there, by the way."
"Thanks, same for you."
More silence.
"So, what do you think I am?"
"A priest."
I didn't realise my error until much later. Maybe I am an idiot.
"A priest, hm? Interesting answer. I suppose you look like, well, how do I say this… In English, I would say a saint."
This ticking is getting more unnerving by the second. I don't like where this is going.
"A saint? I look like something quite the opposite, you know."
"Saints don't have to look good. Ours definitely doesn't."
Oh screw it. He probably already realised it.
"I look like a monster. At least yours looks like something well polished, literally."
"You clearly haven't seen him without the polish. We're all human inside after all, don't you agree? Even with all the costumes, we're all the same. Don't judge a book by it's cover, nor classify it by the title."
"I guess so."
Oh look, his daughter is back, wearing a cloak and with tiny fangs sticking out of her mouth. I did not hear any ticking.
"Daddy! Look what I got!"
"That's a little too much, Emily, don't you think? It'll give the dentist a locked gear. Hey, why don't you take some? I don't really have much of a sweet tooth."
Taken a little aback by that. Nobody offered me food, much less your own daughter's candy. Not that Nobody, that would be weird.
"Thanks, I guess. And don't worry, I have plenty of teeth."
"Sure, see you around."
"I'm sure we won't."
I made a mental note of who not to kill next time. Meanwhile, I'm stuck with a lot of candy and no taste buds.
Do Archons like candy?


I had fear.
Fear had me.
I had no words.
There were no sounds.
I found words, in the darkness.
There were none to talk to.
I found ears, in the darkness.
The ears did naught but whistle.
Nothingness never visits.
I cannot visit nothing.
Not fears me.
I fear not.

We cannot whistle echoes in space.
Light music traverses vacuums.
Whistling began, zooming.
Vibrations of the soul.
Nothing there.
Thing here.
Light here.
Light there.
The chandelier spins.
All at once, photons dance.
Nothing is created or destroyed.
More nothing is created than destroyed.

Unobserved, events observe themselves.
Watching is the nature of things.
Unthings tend not to be.
Things tend to be.
Whence thing?
Whence unthing?
Whence nothing?
Whence we?
Nothing tends to be.
Everything tends not to be.
We have our blinders down, still.
Silent symmetries arise, if we know to look.

None.
One, two, on.
The sun sets and we live.
We relish the nothing and thrive.
Unobserved, there is no supervision.
We lived so well, so deep, so glad, so soon.
The sun rises, and with it, our pact ends.
We turn to foam, not of sea, but space.
The bubbles of the world pop.
The wind carries them away.
They, we, I.
None.

[there does not seem to be anything here]
does not mean
[there does seem to be nothing here]
because
[!nothing != something]
and
[nothing != !something]

What was that noise?
It's probably nothing.

What was that noise?
It's probably nothing.

[world]
met
[world]
thus
[annihilation]
the chandelier
[sparkled]
and the west was lost


Here I am with metal arms; still and silent, knowing
Tracing back to rural farms; old and quiet, sowing
As a boy I learned I had; low and secret, power
Grew much older, good and bad; self-taught knowledge, flowered
A stronger frame gave me in life; skill and chances, schemer
Not coveting success or wife; no need for child, dreamer
I sought to be the one who gives; inspiration, wonder
Yet failed to be someone who lives; real life is hard, blunder
Setting out to shape my course; seek my own way, freedom
Using skills of phantom source; make well the world, feed them
Building wonders for the young; my calling found, completed
The accidental trap is sprung; blood and failure, seeded
I failed three times, abysmal; alone and guilty, tragic
Knowing that my ledger's full; red from misuse, magic
A final use symbolically; an overcharge, of strength
Break my light equivocally; contorting death, its length
Slumbering in playground bed; a friend is made, he listens
Holding on to what I've shed; fear glittering, it glistens
Betrayed and given up to some; sequestered far, contained
Friendship with an odd machine; not ending well, restrained
No understanding comes with this: some accidents, alarmed
I give out one last Christmas gift; your colleague's here, unharmed
They give up hope just like I did; forgotten long, so still
Until the end times knock the world; unmerciful, to kill
Eons pass and here I stay; my only friends, are rubble
Calling out the only way; with broken light, my bubble
A guilty lighthouse in the dark; dying planet, shattered
A voice replies, a shining arc; will this one think, I mattered?


Working a mass-disappearance case is always unsettling. Far too often, we arrive at the location to find a ghost town that's populated with a few gibbering stragglers and an occasional abandoned child. Sometimes we're lucky, and we find some poor, traumatized hold-out who has just barely managed not to get killed, abducted, or otherwise rendered unable to give a coherent statement. Since these people are able to give us at least some clue as to what's going on, these events tend to be the ones with better outcomes.
When we arrived in Asheville, NC, we were surprised to find numerous cogent witnesses. Most were visibly depressed, and reported that their missing loved ones had told them in no uncertain terms that they wouldn't be coming back.
This excerpt from an interview with Mr. Phillip Locke of Asheville, NC is typical:

Agent Fletcher: So when did Mrs. Locke start behaving strangely?
Mr. Locke: Yesterday. We went to see the new exhibit at the Blue Iris. It happened very suddenly… She just stopped in her tracks and glazed over. I was afraid she was going to pass out, so I reached out to steady her. That was when she came to and slapped me.
Agent Fletcher: I see. So she actually became violent?
Mr. Locke: Yeah… Then she started shouting at me to get the hell away from her.
Agent Fletcher: She has never done anything like that before?
Mr. Locke: No, never. I was totally blindsided. All of a sudden, it was like she hated my guts.
Agent Fletcher: How long did this go on?
Mr. Locke: Just a few minutes. After reading me my pedigree, she ran out of the building. When I caught up to her in the parking lot, she actually punched me!
Agent Fletcher: I was going to ask about the black eye… Did she say anything after that?
Mr. Locke: She told me to stop holding her back. She said she just wanted to be happy, and she was leaving. We were done. Then she just got into our car and drove away.

Shortly after this, as we were making a discreet initial sweep through the gallery, we came upon several oddly euphoric couples, all seated in front of the photo Home Again, and engaged in various public displays of affection. They informed us that they had seen several people come in and look at the photo fixedly for a few minutes before running out of the building. They all claimed to be completely perplexed by this, stating that the photo was "beautiful" and "so expressive". As Mrs. Jean Reynolds of Fletcher, NC put it, "It's a wonderful image that shows a beautiful subject… How could anyone find it so upsetting?"
How indeed? It was odd that a cognitohazard should affect people in such disparate ways. It would be some time before I would entirely understand the nature of the Foundation's newest acquisition, as we still had to finish going through containment procedures.
Naturally, we took the hazardous image from the gallery and searched the photographer's house. When we didn't find printed copies, we packed out anything that could have contained digital photographic files. Those would later come up empty except for a single file encoding the hazardous photo. We took readings around the house looking for anomalous radiation and other unusual energy signatures. Not a whit. No evil, ancient artifacts, arcane tomes or cursed cameras were to be found in Mrs. Sara Parrish's home.
As we were able to catch them, those who had fled the area were detained and attempts were made to interview them. In each case, there was someone the affected individual had to find, and they were determined to find that person NOW. Comments like "I've wasted so much time." and "I can't believe I settled." were common, as were attempts to overpower the interviewers, and a necessity for strong sedatives. In the end, some 135 affected individuals were returned safely home to unemployment and in some cases, absent spouses.
Of course, Mrs. Parrish herself had to be reckoned with; The Foundation wanted to understand the method of Home Again's creation. As soon as the researchers determined that Mrs. Parrish was not anomalous, I was called in to interview her.
I found Mrs. Parrish to be in low spirits, but willing to discuss her photography. I asked a few innocuous questions, then commented on Home Again, calling attention to its "remarkable composition". I was certain that I was dealing with one hell of a sociopathic manipulator. Surely her ego would rise to a bit of flattering bait…
To this, Mrs. Parrish replied, “Oh yes, Home Again… I love that picture, but it came about by sheer luck. I was out with my camera during a trip up north, and I just happened to see this soldier walking up to one of those old Brownstone buildings they've got up there. He had a bunch of daisies in his hand. It immediately hit me that this would make a great photo, so I asked the soldier if I could take his picture. He said yes, and then I asked him to pose like he was knocking on the door…"
"As I looked through the lens, the light…the flowers…the soldier returning to his lover after a deployment in hell…all of it suddenly felt perfect. You see, my husband had died just six months before that. So, as all the elements of that shot came together, I felt like they and I were in sympathy with each other. I would have given anything in that moment to come home to my James… Looking back, I don't think I've ever seen another photo that expressed such a feeling of longing."
There was a brief pause, before she smiled and continued.
"God, it always sounds so pretentious and vain when I say that out loud. It's all true, but I'll understand if you think I'm silly."
I was tongue tied for a moment before giving the only response my position allowed.
“No ma'am. That doesn't sound silly at all.”


Dr. Lang woke up happy. Everything was okay again, the way it was meant to be. He had fixed it. Or maybe it had never happened, and was all a misunderstanding.
A moment later, the dread hit. The relief had been a dream. A stomachache knotted itself in his gut and sent a wave of dull pain up his body, into his arms and throat. It was the dull ache of never being able to get comfortable, a constant shortness of breath, a constriction of the throat. It was the kind of pain that was always there, shadowing every moment, even the good ones.
"I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds," he quoted to himself in the shower, before a sarcastic chuckle and a shake of his head. Who was he talking to? Himself? God, if there was one? The O5s? Whoever he was talking to, he blamed them. What kind of God would let this happen? How could HE, Dr. Lang, let this happen? He was a Director for one of the most important sites of the humongous goddamn shadow paranormal super-government! How the hell did HE let that happen? Then he remembered the O5s. Fuck them. In all their knowledge and power, they still refused to do anything about it. He needed to convince them. But he remembered that he tried, and it didn't work. He needed to do something himself.
He thought back to the moment, as he always did. He had given the command, the techie had hit the enter key, and then… nothing. He had wondered if there was an error, if it even had any effect. Then the radio call. It worked… sort of. The entire beam hadn't just been redirected, it had disappeared entirely. Well, good, he had thought, that should please the O5s. Odd outcome, though. Then the second radio call a few minutes later, about the supernovas. Supernovae, whatever. That's when the dread first hit. Well, first it was disbelief, then dread, then a moment later, an overwhelming panic. "Oh SHIT!!!" he had screamed into the receiver. At least the initial panic cleared when he verified that there was no danger to Earth. At least we were in the clear.
But the slow, gnawing dread had continued to build. They say time heals all wounds, but this one just got worse and worse. Five months, and it still consumed his life. He supposed he knew how people felt who lost spouses or entire families in car wrecks or fires. Some of them still hurt after five months, even five years, and that's normal. So maybe this was just normal.
Dr. Lang snickered in disbelief again. The hot water had just run out.

"Hey, Steve?"
"Dr. Lang, please."
"Yes, sir." Marty's tone seemed a little sarcastic. Whatever, let the little prick feel however he wants. "Here is your fax on retro-causality, two skip briefs, and the Level-3 file on the SRAs. It's almost all redacted, and the woman said you'll need to VPN in and request it yourself if you want the Level-4, and you'd need to fill out…"
"Yes, just put it all on my desk," Lang interrupted sharply, "In the box, please. No, The INBOX, please!" Dr. Lang sighed. Everything annoyed him these days. He knew he was just lashing out. But at the same time, the little shit didn't have to be such a retard, either.
It turned out to be all useless, anyway. The retro-causality brief was based on the same Grandfather-Paradox bullshit he'd read a thousand times. All wrong. As for the skips, one was a minor trinket, some camera that took pictures of the past, and the other was just some door that could only be open or shut every 27.18 minutes. He was sure the researchers would never understand the significance of that number, the ignorant little fucks, he smiled sarcastically to himself. Too bad the file on the SRAs was so redacted he wasn't sure why the Level 3 version existed at all.
"The invention of the Scranton Reality Anchor (SRA) appears to [REDACTED] and is credited to [REDACTED] Due to the expense involved in producing [REDACTED] Foundation-wide implementation of the device has been limited to units capable of an area of effect less than two cubic meters (“Use of mSRA ‘Scranton Boxes' to Provide Mission Critical Document Security” L. Piedmont et. al., Foundation, Vol 106.8, pp 10-14, 1988)."
Dr. Lang chuckled, violently ripped up the papers, and threw them in the trash. He idly speculated what would happen if he lit the trash can on fire. The smoke alarm would go off, the guards would rush in, he would play it cool. "What? What's wrong? Oh, the fire? What about it? Yeah, it's a waste basket fire. Big fucking deal. Why don't you go back to guarding the WEAPON THAT BLEW UP A FEW TRILLION LIVES. WE DEMOLISHED COUNTLESS FUCKING CIVILIZATIONS AND YOU FUCKS ARE WORRIED ABOUT SOME BURNING PAPER." God, he hated those useless morons. Was it time for lunch yet?
The day only got worse: meatloaf. It looked like literal shit. Seriously, if the cafeteria ladies had squatted on the pan, pinched a few loaves, put it in the oven, and served it, that's exactly what it would like.
Dr. Lang was ready for a drink before noon. At least he thought he was. He never understood how people became drunks, the stuff tasted like piss and made you feel even worse. Those tiny little fucks with their problems of women and marriage and jobs and kids. He WISHED he had those problems. He had murdered an advanced alien civilization, accidentally extinguished the life from hundreds of suns, and you didn't see him drinking. He took a walk instead.
He brushed his hand along the beryllium bronze walls of the underground complex. This place was like a gold mine. Well, a copper mine. Bronze mine. Were there bronze mines? Either way, the Foundation kept asking for larger and larger "samples" and he didn't think they were really testing it. Probably just trying to pay all their bills. He smirked at the thought of the Foundation hocking chunks of copper at a salvage yard.
He finally reached the window to dash four. The Neutron Star. This thing was beautiful, he couldn't deny that, but being here always filled him with more pain and dread and heartache than anywhere else. But it let him focus on it.
After all, he needed to save them. He thought of poets and artists, operas, cities, towers, magnificent works of architecture, people playing in parks, dogs, insects, trees, all living and working together in harmony. All dead, all gone, all because of him. So he wept. He needed to save them. Why did they die? Why did any of this happen?
He wept and thought of spaceships. Orbiting worlds. A bright future of thriving life, a galaxy teeming with beauty and art and consciousness and happiness and trade and love and he killed it all. Cavemen aliens extinguished before they could become great. Veritable gods of space and time, wiped out by one. careless. hand. Wiped out by their own invention. Why were they so stupid? Why didn't they secure it? Why did they build it in the first place? And why here, on Earth?
Maybe this is just how life is… maybe it is the nature of the universe, a fundamental law, that intelligent life will inevitably wipe itself out?
Dr. Lang waited for an answer.
There was no answer. The Neutron Star continued to burn, as it always had, mindless, careless.
Maybe it was test. Maybe it was his job to fix it. Maybe that was what life was about: making mistakes and fixing them, even the biggest ones.
Maybe he wasn't a destroyer after all, an insignificant ant who accidentally set off a nuclear bomb. Maybe he was a builder. A rebuilder. Maybe he could fix this, and he would be like Prometheus or Jesus or something.
For what it's worth, he was trying… as much as he could, anyway. His Level 4/2100 Clearance gave him access to info on less skips than one might think. But they were the key. Somehow, somewhere, in some Foundation vault, or protected in some innocuous warehouse, there was something, probably a few things, that could let him save them. Time Travel was real, after all, and one could change things. That's how they died, that's how they would be saved. He resolved himself to try even harder, to stop worrying about possibly getting in trouble. What could they do to him anyway? Fire him? Kill him? D-Class duty? Big deal. He could accept any fate at this point.
He deserved it.

"Wowzers…" Dr. Lang said aloud to himself, grinning ear to ear with excitement. He needed to quit talking to himself, he noted quickly. But this… this was better than he could have hoped for! He felt a wave of hope wash over him, physically warming him. It was something he hadn't felt in a long time.
It had taken Dr. Lang nearly four months just to piece together the fact that his mystery Doctor even existed, reading between the lines on redacted reports, unclassified containment documents, and asking just the right innocuous questions to just the right innocuous researchers. It took him another two months to come up with an innocent, legitimate reason to request access to the information he wasn't supposed to know anything about.
"Experimental analysis cross-referenced with Foundation assets at CERN and MIT confirms the theoretical ‘T' boson is being actively produced by the Neutron Star -4. Tachyonic Flux has been measured at non-negligible deviations from normal." Dr. Lang had written in his report. All bullshit, but the only people on Earth who could verify that already worked for him. Approval came quietly a few weeks later in the form of a simple e-mail. "You have been summarily approved for Level 4 Clearance Level Theta [General Restricted Temporal Anomaly Database]," the e-mail began, before detailing his new responsibilities and listing points of contact.
Dr. Lang had assumed his mystery man would be a researcher who had studied temporal anomalies enough to really grasp the basic principles, had written up a few temporal skips, and with a little luck, had tried a handful of other experiments. Dr. Lang assumed this would be a guy who had sent a few letters to the past or heard from the future or something. He was not expecting this.
"Signed Dr. Thad Zah-yank," Dr. Lang read aloud, wondering what kind of name "Xyank" was. If Document-1780-WL was legitimate, and admittedly he had every reason to believe it wasn't, then Xyank was a real-life Dr. Who, running around and fixing temporal anomalies. Xyank even had his own Containment Task Force Delta-t that he recruited from across different timelines. Jesus. This was pure science fiction. But this was the Foundation after all, the same Foundation with boreholes filled with infinite books and time travelling boats. Contacting Xyank didn't seem too difficult, one just needed access to SCP-1780.
This guy, this Dr. Xyank, he was the key to fixing everything.

"Your request to test SCP-1780 has been summarily DENIED. As this is your fourth request to access SCP-1780, your fifth request will be reviewed by the O5 council."
Shit. -They- sure wouldn't give him access to SCP-1780. They might even catch on if this was brought to their attention. It had been a long shot anyway, trying to convince this Dr. Schrader that SCP-1780 had any relationship to the Tripwire.
He decided to take a different approach, and looked up her profile on the intranet. HMCL Supervisor. PhD in Theoretical Physics from Berkeley with Foundation certificates in Anomalous Materials Handling and Temporal Anomalies. E-Mail address, phone number. Personalized profile, she had two dogs and liked country music. And she was giving an open Level-3 seminar on Safe Handling of Temporal Anomalies in October at Site-17.
Dr. Lang clicked the link and registered for the Seminar.

The flight from Antarctica was long and boring, made a hundred times longer by his mind's inability to shut the fuck up and just let him sleep. The entire flight, his internal monologue just kept racing and going over every little impossible-to-predict detail. He must have gone over what he might say to Dr. Schrader six hundred times. Yet despite his brain's best effort, his plan was actually very simple. He would listen to the seminar, try and pick up on a topic that she felt passionate about, then approach her afterwards and ask her some questions about it. He wouldn't schmooze her, but he'd be friendly and act interested enough in whatever she had to say. Finally he'd introduce himself and see if he couldn't persuade her to at least sit in on an SCP-1780 experiment. And then, if and when Xyank showed up, he'd break protocol, interrupt the experiment, get Xyank's attention, and Dr. Who would fix everything. Simple really.

The seminar was long and boring, made a hundred times longer by the boring subject matter and disinterested presenter.
"Guards are ordered to use lethal force against anyone attempting to interrupt a temporal experiment, for obvious reasons. We've never had an issue on this site, and this goes without saying, but obviously, you are never, ever, to disrupt an active temporal experiment except via a certified failsafe."
A few things had already gone not-quite-according to plan. First was that Schrader wasn't putting on this seminar due to any passion for Temporal Safety. She was required to put it on as part of her job. She admitted as much and apologized to the audience before she even began. She didn't even make the slides, they had been passed down by her predecessor. Worse, Dr. Lang was one of twelve attendees, and most of the others seemed to be from the same department as her and were required to be there. Only he and one other gentleman seemed out of place.
"Exploration of temporal anomalies is restricted to D personnel and robots only." Dr. Shrader droned, reading almost verbatim from a slide. "When in use, anomalies need to be guarded by three Level 3 security personnel. If you can't schedule a security detail, don't run the test. It's as simple as that, people."
The seminar clearly did not apply to him in the least.
When the end finally came, Dr. Lang felt the rush of relief followed by the nervous knot in his stomach. This had to go right. While the audience was clearing the room and chatting, Dr. Lang approached the podium. "Dr. Shrader," he said to get her attention, "Great, ah, presentation." Shit. Shit! He was as good as useless right now. His mind suddenly went blank and he had NO idea what to say.
"And you are?" she asked. Shit. Shit. Shit. He didn't want to play his hand this early!
"Ahhh… well… I'm Dr. Lang." he smiled.
"Oh yes! You! You've been trying to schedule time with SCP-1780!" Dr. Shrader said, smiling.
"Yeah, that's me!" Lang responded. Phew! She was being nice and not acting suspicious in the least! Maybe everything would work out, after all.
"Well. I guess you must be eager. You came all the way from… where, exactly?"
"Ahhh, Springfield," Dr. Lang lied. She wasn't cleared to know where he came from, and the closer his fake location, the less desperate he sounded.
"Oh, I didn't know we had a site there. But who knows anything these days, right!?" Dr. Shrader said, laughing, with a "you know how it is" tone in her voice. Dr. Lang knew exactly how it was. No one really knew anything these days.
"Yeah! … so, about 1780… well, I'm very interested. Would it be possible for me to, maybe, sit in on one of your experiments?"
"Absolutely!" Dr. Shrader responded. Dr. Lang had to use every last bit of concentration to keep his face from evoking emotion.
"You've got Level 4 Clearance and, well, you've just had your required safety brief, so everything is in order." Was it really that easy? Was that all it was?
"Has your paperwork been sent to Cindy?" Dr. Shrader asked, interrupting his thoughts.
"Sorry?" Uh oh. Maybe there was a hiccup after all.
"You need to send your paperwork to the front desk here if…"
"Oh, yes, I have sent it to the Front Desk." Dr. Lang responded. Of course he had. How else did he get in the front door past all the guards? Some people just had no common sense.

Two days later Dr. Lang sat with Dr. Shrader and two researchers in a little darkened room behind a one way mirror. Cameras and sensitive recording equipment covered the rear wall. Three disinterested security personnel sat on the far side of the room, guarding the door to the test chamber.
Through the glass, across the chamber, was a nondescript wooden door, adorned by a single empty nameplate mount. In the middle of the chamber sat a little tracked robot the size of a child's wagon, one single mechanical arm folded up on top of it. The arm held a nameplate.
"Doctor Thaddeus Xah-yank," Dr. Lang said aloud.
"There's a debate over whether it's pronounced 'Xah-yank' or 'Zank' or 'Zee-ankh.'"
"Wait, you've never met him?" Dr. Lang asked, trying to hide his shock.
"We've seen him, but we've never been able to detain him or hold him for very long. He always manages to get away," the attractive young Researcher said.
"Shut up, we're starting," the other Researcher said, a grumpy balding man in his mid-forties.
The little robot rolled forward, creeping along slowly. An eternity later, it stopped. Its little arm extended slowly. It moved perfectly to one side, then back, sliding the nameplate into the template. The arm retracted slightly, before slowly grinding towards the doorknob. Dr. Lang held his breath as the robotic arm slowly squeezed down, then slowly spun counterclockwise…
The door burst open with a bang, slamming the robot aside like a toy. Dr. Lang nearly had a heart attack.
"If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times, your timeline does NOT get any answers," said the loud, distinct voice coming from the odd little man. He quickly paced right up to the one-way mirror and began banging on it. "Get that through your heads and STOP. TESTING. If I catch you again, I'll be forced to take action!" Xyank turned around and started walking back towards the open door.
"Wait!" Dr. Lang shouted. Xyank didn't hear him. Thick glass. Dr. Lang banged on it several times, so hard his fist hurt. Xyank stopped, and turned slowly toward the mirror.
"What the heck are you doing?" Shrader shouted at Lang, "You are NOT to interrupt the experiment!"
"Fuck that," Dr. Lang said, lunging toward the door to open it. It was locked. "Give me the keys." he said to security, "Open the door right now." The security guards hesitated and looked at each other. "I said NOW! I am a Level 4 Site Director and I demand you open this…"
"STOP IT!" Shrader yelled. "You are NOT opening that door! Stop him if at any cost if he tries," she ordered, her face flushing red with anger.
"Whatever, you fucks, you're NOT stopping this." Dr. Lang had come too far. He lunged back towards the mirror, grabbed a metal stool, and slammed it against the glass. It bounced off. He hit it again.
Xyank slowly walked towards the mirror, hearing the quiet thumps, confused.
"STOP IT!" Shrader yelled again. "STOP IT! STOP HIM!" Dr. Lang continued to slam the stool against the mirror. A tiny crack started to form.
Dr. Lang did not hear the gunshot. He was dead before the sound reached him.


Only ghosts remember. This thing in Detroit, though? Well, this was a bad one.

Yes, I do know what happened to those two and the other. Yes, I was there. Well, of course, you heard something about that.
Let me tell you this: when you are young, you count and tally; you rate your fuck-ups against each other like a drunkard's race. Me? I stopped bothering a long time ago. All fuck-ups, big or small, after enough time passes they are all the same, forgotten. Only ghosts remember. This thing in Detroit, though? Well, this was a bad one.
It started with the crack house, with the deaths of seven innocent people that I got there too late to stop. Seven more souls that are now bound to me by my mistakes.
I might have been able to do something about it the night before. I had already been arguing with them for so long, it was so very late, and I was so very tired. It is hard to take mass murder seriously, cloaked in pretentious bullshit, over three-in-the-morning diner pancakes and stale coffee. I honestly had thought they were all talk, but that isn't really any excuse for negligence.
Yes, of course they were narcissists, and I knew that. The art requires narcissism, at least at first. You can't hope to warp the world to your will, unless you first believe your will is more real than the world itself and everyone in it. You should have seen me when the bereginya first found me. I was a pretty terror. I would have eaten you alive, you lovely strong man, yes. I may yet, still.
By the time I got there, the working had already started. The circle was drawn, the altar was hallowed and laved in blood. The spirits of steel and concrete, of empty lot and blighted playground, spat and howled; all awakened, sentient and restless. My students had done this. They were fools, and foolishness was going to get them killed but I had made the mistake of teaching them what little they knew and I was responsible for them.
I found them on the roof of the condemned tenement. "What have you done?" I asked. Mother Morena, could I have been any more ineffectual and cliched?
Jake went on with the usual rehearsed rhetoric, the symbolic transformation of trash into art (those were people, you psychotic asshole), sending a message to the thrones of power, blah blah blah. Ty said that they needed to fuel the working, these people were as close to dead already as makes no difference, nobody would miss them, and the cops would never come to this neighborhood to investigate the murder of some black crack addicts (as though mundane police attention was our main worry). Petra … Petra just threw back her head and laughed.
I had to help them, they couldn't handle power on this scale. I thought I could keep the collateral damage to a minimum. Collateral damage? Who am I, some flunkie at a Pentagon press conference? These are human lives I'm casually discussing the destruction of! Even I could barely handle a working of this scale anymore. Nowadays, my art is a bright pebble worn smooth by time and I am very far from my places of power. So I helped, so help me.
Perhaps, with my help, it would have worked. It might have been a thing of beauty brought forth by craft and will into a world made better by its presence. It might have shouted a truth that shook the halls of the mighty, and brought presidents and kings weeping to their knees. It might have exalted art over celebrity, given wings to the imprisoned, shone as a lantern to the lost and birthed the Aquarian Age from the stinking corpse of the Age of Mammon. Then, just maybe, it might almost have been worth the cost.
Now, what Ty was too stupid to realize, was that when people find that the authorities won't help them, they help themselves. Some gang claimed that house, the drugs, and the addicts in it, and they had sent their soldiers to avenge this invasion. Kids really, three of them, probably 13 to 15 years old (although I was the same age when father dressed me in boy's clothes, the lord's men put a spear in my hand for the first time and I marched to avenge some similar insult).
So, these armed children burst onto the roof with machine pistols, and started spraying bullets everywhere. They couldn't possibly have hit me, of course, and it's probably dumb luck they hit anybody, but Jake took a bullet in his leg. I charmed one of them to sleep, as soon as I had my wits. I'm a foolish old woman, to let myself be ambushed by children in the first place! Ty fumbled for some petty defense that I had taught him but never got it off. Jake just screamed. Petra advanced on them, like a lioness, and smiled. They shot at her, but the bullets just passed through her like she wasn't really there (and of course, in a sense she wasn't). She picked them up one at a time and ripped their bodies apart with her bare hands, their souls feeding the working (now ravenous and insatiable).
It was ruined now, of course, all concentration lost and far too much blood spilled. It escaped into the sky and came crashing down in the city. I imagine there were hundreds killed. Then the air grew greasy and heavy, pregnant with power and, just like that, the giants were summoned forth. Hideous floating copies of Ty and Jake, hundreds of feet long and dressed in bi-colored harlequin costumes. They were grotesque, absurd human parade balloons with the minds of infants, and of course that ridiculous catch phrase was emblazoned on the sky in the color of dried blood. A farce skimmed from the idle thoughts of undisciplined minds. This wasn't just a senseless waste of human life, it was trite, it was a perversion of the art, it was gauche.
Jake, of course, claimed that it was a victory, that this clumsy and hideous mess was actually his plan all along. It was an ironic commentary on the ultimate uselessness of art for revolutionary means or some bullshit. Jake would never tally his fuck-ups, he always just simply redefined each one as a triumph. Such a simple strategy, to claim every failure as a victory, too bad you need to be a monstrous idiot to pull it off.
Ty shrugged and said, "Mistakes were made." As though this wasn't anything he did, just something that happened. As though there wouldn't be a price.
I told you I have stopped keeping score, but this was a monstrous fuck-up. So, I undid it. Yes, I imagine you'd like to know how. Your people would love a way to just unmake messes like this, wouldn't you? Well, I'll give you a hint, because you are my favorite great-great-something-great-grandson: God is a critic, and She hates bad art.
Nothing in my art is without cost, of course, all of those that died, are still dead. I imagine there was a train accident or gas-main explosion or terrorist attack or something instead. The ghosts are still mine. Jake still got shot somehow. He doesn't remember though, because I took care of him and Ty, after. They may, with therapy, eventually be able to talk, feed themselves and wipe their own asses again. They are young yet. Who knows? If he could, I'm sure Jake would claim this as his victory too.
That was the last of my power for awhile, I think, I'll need to save what I have left just to stay alive, for a hundred years at least.
Drink your tea, now, if you want me to read the leaves.
As for Petra, well she was the best working those two did, the best working I've seen since Jack Parson's Babalon, she was why I consented to teach them in the first place, after all. A masterpiece, by chance, from gifted apprentices. She is as perfect as they dreamed her and she has cut the umbilicus to them. She is out there now, a free thought, her will moving through the world and the world moving according to her will. What will she become? Woman, witch, goddess or monster? Or perhaps all of the above, eh? Who knows? She's young yet too.


On ██/██/19██ a message in Russian was received by the [REDACTED] observatory via a radio telescope operating as part of the SETI program. Supposedly, the signal originated from a space research station [REDACTED] which was launched in ████1 to Titan's orbit. Due to the message's obvious connection to SCP-████ this document was classified to Level 4.
On ██/██/19██ the following emails were exchanged between ████████ ████████████, an undercover Foundation agent in SETI, and ███████ ███████, Area 14 supervisor.

From: Undercover research group member ████████ ████████████
To: Area 14 supervisor ███████ ███████
Subject: Received message
24 minutes ago, as part of the SETI project, I received and decrypted a message sent at the ████ MHz frequency. Scrambling method and modulation are similar to those we use to communicate with Foundation satellites and probes. This is the first time this message was received as part of the SETI program. The signal originated from an object (a space station) located near Saturn or one of its satellites. We were unable to pinpoint the location due to their proximity. I'm not sure whether your Area equipment has detected this message, but I can tell you for sure this facility does not have any equipment capable of receiving messages on this specific frequency. The event was not witnessed by anyone, as there was no research being conducted during that time, and I was the only one responsible for monitoring. I have attached the decrypted message. Please check your equipment and poll other undercover SETI agents - a leak in other facilities is possible. Log files were updated promptly, I'm carrying on my monitoring.

From: Area 14 supervisor ███████ ███████
To: Undercover research group member ████████ ████████████
Subject: Re: Received message
We got your message. Neither our Area equipment, nor the equipment in other Areas or SETI facilities have received this message. Supposedly, yours was the only telescope to detect this signal, although several facilities with low information availability remain to be checked. During the course of an action meeting we decided the signal was weak enough (intentionally?) to only be detected by highly sensitive specialized gear that was as close to the source as possible at the time of reception, and only at a specific latitude (a station █ degrees away from you did not detect the signal). Seems like we got lucky. Site 7 is already investigating this incident. Rumor has it, it's related to days long past, but that's above my clearance level so I don't know anything for certain. Carry on monitoring, report any new detected messages promptly. Although, if we did get lucky, we won't be receiving anything else.

Addendum: Transcript of the received message

My dear beloved Mashen'ka.
I'm still on the station. Our time is running differently, so I think this message will not reach you in quite some time.
Below me, lurid blue seas are washing against a brightly yellow land. Methane and ethane color them that way. The Sun looks like a minuscule dim star and barely gives any warmth. I'm trying to remind myself that it has not changed in any way, did not shrink or go dark, that it's the same fiery luminary for the Earth. Sometimes, when Saturn rises above Titan, I'm thinking it looks like a big Moon with a ring around it.
As you can see, my heart is still on Earth: I'm trying to find echoes of a familiar life everywhere. That's how humans are - their craniums are just too small to encompass space in its frighteningly alien fullness. Although I do know things on Earth are not like they used to be. A month ago I received a message from Mission Control (Mission Control no longer exists, but some people were kind enough to remember me and let me know). They told me something happened on Earth. They did not tell me exactly what, but they spoke about a secret government (as I understood) and a replicator facility they had to utilize. They told me humanity was fully extinct but recreated anew. They also hinted that a clone of myself was created too and that there's another me living on Earth now.
My dearest Mashen'ka, does it mean that the other one is now beside you? I don't know whether to laugh or cry. After all, I'm content with being able to hug you through hundreds of millions of kilometers.
They recommended me to take it in stride, with dignity and humility, they told me they are sorry, and I'm trying to meet their expectations. I'm alone here, but I promised myself not to lose my mind just yet, and I think I'll manage to remain sane. I'm stranded here, the solar panels barely give enough electricity to power the station, and I have no fuel to return to Earth. Although, I understand now there is no reason to return; you have your own life there, and there's no place for me in it.
I know this message will not reach you. They will not allow you to know. And you, my dear, you are no longer there. You are dead, just like the rest. I'm sending these words into the void you now dwell in, and I hope they will get stranded in the blackness that surrounds everything here. I'm ready to accept. To accept and let go - of you, of the Earth, of myself. It's like an umbilical cord breaking. It's like when you're out in space, and your tether snaps.
Now it is only me and Him. I have already looked in His eyes.

Footnotes
1. [DATA EXPUNGED]


Nexus #: Nx-58
Civilian Designation: Yumegēmu, Tokushima, Japan
Population: 5,724
Area Class: Shangri-La
Nexus Interaction Protocol: All personnel assigned to Nx-58 must be implanted with sub-dermal tracking devices. All identity verification at Site-79 must consist of passcode-based security, as retinal, facial, DNA, or fingerprint recognition are ineffective due to Nx-58's anomalies. Personnel may also apply for individual identification tattoos, provided that the identification design does not match any existing designs among personnel or inhabitants of Nx-58. Personnel are advised against carrying objects of significant tactical, economic, or sentimental value into Nx-58.
Civilians within Nx-58 are fully aware of the anomalous nature of the area they populate, and have been encouraged to cooperate with Foundation personnel on matters pertaining to anomalies within the town. The populous of Nx-58 is amicable, and have E-Personnel-Class Level knowledge of Foundation operations.
External civilians are to be deterred from entering Nx-58. Nx-58 is to be removed from all civilian maps and registries, and all roads leading to Nx-58 are to be closed off or monitored and controlled by Foundation operatives.
Containment Facility: Site-79
Description: Nx-58 is an urban area located in inland Japan. Disregarding the numerous tangential anomalies generated due to Nx-58's nature as a Nexus, the majority of the anomalies in Nx-58 are derived from one of two main thematic systems.
The first system bears several similarities to the logic encountered during REM sleep. The topography of Nx-58's streets is often inconsistent, with scenery and layout changing when not in a line-of-sight. The recorded area within Nx-58 also appears to be much larger than its external dimensions would allow. Time also appears to be inconsistent, with chronometers registering separate lengths of time while operatives are separated, despite functioning at the same speed while the operatives were together. While inside Nx-58, humans are also prone to undergoing regular changes in physical identity,1 often accompanied by lapses in attention. These changes often result in the loss of clothing and personal items, which are replaced by a new set of clothes and personal items. These changes do not appear to change sub-dermal alteration, such as tattoos or sub-dermal tracking devices, or the currency generated within Nx-58.
The second thematic system in Nx-58 seems to be tied to various games and challenges. Approximately 62% of all accessible buildings in Nx-58 host some form of logic puzzle, challenge, or game for a variable number of players. Various points exist throughout the Nexus which contain a variety of challenges, often presented as written instructions attached to a display-board or display-board analog. Completion of any of these games or challenges results in the manifestation of a variable amount of unmarked coins of undetermined composition.
The aesthetic theme of Nx-58's architecture tends towards urban variations of surrealism and fantasy, with high-technological additions. Various utilities within Nx-58, such as running water and the power needed for electrical lighting, do not have any apparent source. Besides gaming facilities, the vast majority of buildings within Nx-58 seem dedicated to the sale of food, drinks, and supplies of various and occasionally unknown purpose. These supplies can be purchased with the currency generated by Nx-58. These buildings, along with the other buildings in Nx-58, are staffed by single anomalous entities (AE-58-1). Despite a variety of human phenotypes across instances, all AE-58-1 are genetically identical, with DNA extremely similar to Sepia officinalis. Due to behavioral analysis, it is currently believed that AE-58-1 are not truly sapient, and are only capable of limited human interface.
Of note is that humans do not appear to be adversely physically or mentally affected by a lack of sleep, nutrition, hydration, or waste production, though subjects do report hunger and thirst if they go without eating or drinking.

Footnotes
1. Changes do not appear to be determined by the human's previous state. Changes in biological age and sex are fairly common, while changes in ethnicity are still notable but less common.


Nexus #: Nx-33
Civilian Designation: Drake, Inverness-shire, Scotland
Population: 759
Area Class: Camelot
Nexus Interaction Protocol: Nx-33 is to be removed from physical and digital civilian maps. Travel into and out of Nx-33 by non-personnel is to be monitored, and restricted as needed.
In addition to standard staffing requirements, Site-127 is required to have a minimum of three on-site representatives from the Anomalous Relations and Negotiations Division for the purpose of maintaining positive Nx-33/Foundation relations.
Civilians within Nx-33 are fully aware of the anomalous nature of the area they populate, and have been encouraged to cooperate with Foundation personnel on matters pertaining to anomalies within the town. The population of Nx-33 is mostly amicable, and inhabitants have E-Personnel-Class Level knowledge of Foundation operations.
Any personnel wishing to take part in a SOLEMNITAS Event must submit form T615J a minimum of three weeks in advance to the event, and receive approval in response to said form. Participation in a SOLEMNITAS Event will count toward personnel's paid-vacation limit. Participating individuals will be required to record full accounts of their experiences upon return.
Containment Facility: Site-127
Description: Nx-33 is characterized mainly by a large number of human-guided/operated anomalies, compared to other anomalies present in the Nexus. Specifically, the majority of these human-guided anomalies are dedicated to short-term alteration of reality, the surrounding environment, and human anatomy. Both these and other anomalies are integrated into the daily life of residents, aiding in agriculture, construction, and recreational activities.
Also of note is the fact that most of the anomalies present in Nx-33 display signs of extra-universal origin, despite only slightly higher-than-average levels of inter-universal breaches for a Nexus. Despite having identified anomalies from upwards of ██ separate realities, the majority of extra-universal anomalies present are believed to originate from Timeline-12-7-████.
While most large scale anomalies remain inconstant and are only active sporadically, there are several which either remain constantly and predictably active, or remained so in the past before being naturally neutralized in 1939 during event 33-Beta (see Addendum 33-1 for more information):

The occurrence of SOLEMNITAS Events.
The town and the areas surrounding it are inhabited by unusually large populations of SCP-936.
An uninhabited cavern system located beneath the town. The cavern system possesses a low frame-of-reality, increasing the likelihood of trans-universal breaches and overlap.
When viewed indirectly (e.g. through a mirror, photograph, or film) native residents of Nx-33 will appear to be composed of various forms of plant matter. Photographic evidence shows that this phenomenon affected increasingly greater portions of the population until 1939, at which point the whole population was affected.
Nx-33 recorded unusually high numbers of childbirths and crop yields from 1798 to 1939. Durring the winter cycles between SOLEMNITAS Events within this timeframe, there were also unusually high numbers of unsolved missing persons cases and unexplained deaths.
Approximately █.██% of the remains located in Nx-33's cemetery possess divergent physiology or genetics consistent with SCP-2615-A, indicating possible past existence in the area. This theory is currently under consideration, though further research has been deterred by the natural advanced decay affecting the samples.

+ Display Information on SOLEMNITAS Events

– hide block

SOLEMNITAS Events (referred to as "The Festival of Homes" by residents of Nx-33) take place on each Spring and Autumn equinox. Over the course of the day, residents will usually consume large amounts of alcohol and dairy products. During a SOLEMNITAS Event, each house in Nx-33 will serve as a source for a single anomaly. Houses are usually manned by two to four residents which reside in the house. At the end of each SOLEMNITAS Event, most anomalous modifications are removed from Nx-33, residents, affected personnel, and the surrounding environment. A list of some, but by no means all, of the anomalies includes:

Description

While remaining in the structure, subjects will either lose or gain a piece of clothing, jewelry, or other personal item via materialization or dematerialization every one to five minutes. Criteria for whether an item is added or taken away, and which item, is currently unknown. Efforts to trace the location of and recover the objects yielded no results.

House is filled with a translucent, hallucinogenic gas, and has several mirrors displayed in each room of the house. Subjects will hallucinate changes in their physical features, including changes in height, build, hair and eye color, ethnicity, and biological sex, as well as animistic phenotypes, such as tails, antlers, eyes, and ears. Upon exiting the structure, changes that subjects have perceived to have occurred to themselves will physically manifest.

Subject's hair will grow at a rapid pace, averaging 0.3 cm/s. Hair will begin to style itself, often arranging itself in patterns which require non-euclidean space.

House is filled with catatonic residents. Upon entering the house through the front door, subjects will be presented with a slip of paper containing a riddle. The answer to the riddle will be one of the catatonic residents. If direct physical contact is made with the correct resident, a non-catatonic copy of the instance will manifest nearby, and will accompany the subject for the rest of the day. If direct physical contact is made with any of the other catatonic instances, subject will be rendered catatonic for approximately three hours.

Addendum 33-1: Please enter security credentials to proceed.
Username: jfujimoto
Password: ●●●●●●●●●●

Enter

Enter

Red sky at night
Sailor's delight.

Red sky at morning
Sailors take warning.

The sun dances
Along the sea

And all their love
Bleeds red.

Clearance confirmed. Welcome, Researcher Fujimoto.

In addition to SCP-2615's existence within Nx-33 in the past, evidence points to a likelihood that they were either the first or one of the first anomalies present in the Nexus. Evidence supporting this can be found in the large numbers of human-operated anomalies, which are utilized in a similar manner to those in SCP-2615's home timestream (Timeline-12-7-Zeta); the fact that SOLEMNITAS Events appear to be adaptations of SCP-2615 festivals from the same relative geographical and chronographical areas; and the present state of Nx-33 residents.
Covert testing, observation, and analysis have confirmed that the native inhabitants of Nx-33 are either Humanoid Artificial Constructs (HACs) or Humans of Artificial Origin (HAOs), with HACs being the more likely scenario. Similar HACs and HAOs have been identified in Timeline-12-7-Zeta, albeit less advanced, often ceasing biological functions after several days.
SCP-2615-A likely made use of the HACs for one or both of two reasons. The first possibility is for reconnaissance or use as sleeper agents. The second possibility is that HAC copies enabled SCP-2615-A to abduct original inhabitants for labor or merely to increase the population strength of their society without notice. The first possibility is more likely if the HACs were intentionally engineered with average human longevity, while the second is more likely if they were initially designed to be disposable. It is believed that the HACs were both continually introduced to Nx-33 and grew in numbers through reproduction until 1939, at which point the HACs composed the total population of Nx-33. There is little to no evidence of SCP-2615 in Nx-33 after this point, most likely due to having integrated or terminated all natural humans in the area, and the inability to meaningfully interact with our universe outside of Nx-33, due to the limits of anomalies existing outside of Nx-33 due to its nature as a Nexus.


Nexus #: Nx-07
Civilian Designation: Gwag Hen y Cwn, Swansea, Wales
Population: 1,506
Area Class: Asphodel
Nexus Interaction Protocol: Civilians within Nx-07 are fully aware of the anomalous nature of the area they populate, and have been encouraged to cooperate with Foundation personnel on matters pertaining to anomalies within the town. The populous of Nx-07 is amicable, and have E-Personnel-Class Level knowledge of Foundation operations.
Due to the mostly self-containing attitude towards anomalous traits which has developed in Nx-07, Foundation efforts are to be directed towards covering up and discrediting any possible information leaks which result from non-Nx-07 civilian or news sources. Efforts are also to be taken to prevent the staying of visitors overnight in Nx-07 on any nights with a full moon.
Personnel who have been transferred to Site-78 are to be fully debriefed on the consistent effects of Nx-07. Specialized psychological care is to be offered to all on-Site Foundation personnel in order to help them adjust to life in Nx-07. All newly transferred personnel are to be placed in overnight quarantine while prone to experience their first ACTAEON Event.
Containment Facility: Site-78
Description: Nx-07 is a small village located on the southern coast of Wales. Archaeological study of the area has revealed various artifacts and cultural sites from the Paleolithic █████████ civilization in the area. The town's economy is mostly centered around four manufacturing companies, as well as multiple smaller, family-owned businesses, and the archaeological study of the aforementioned civilization.
Human inhabitants of Nx-07 who have experienced an ACTAEON Event are universally affected by various forms of therianthropy. The effects of the therianthropy manifest by the subject manifesting several noticeable animalistic traits, causing them to appear as an anthropomorphization of an existing species. While not experiencing a ACTAEON Event, inhabitants are capable of consciously activating and deactivating their anomalies. More experienced members of the community have shown the capacity to enter an almost completely animalistic form, without noticeable anthropomorphic traits. Over ███ classifications have been identified, with some of the statistical modes being wolves, dogs, cats, frogs, sheep, cows, pigs, and ravens. █ anomalous species have also been identified. No pattern for the species each subject is tied to has been determined.
An ACTAEON Event occurs on nights with a full moon, from the point in time at which the sun has fully set over the horizon to the point when it begins to rise over the horizon. ACTAEON Events affects all individuals who have lived in Nx-07 for 30 days or more. Over the course of an ACTAEON Event, all affected subjects will enter and be unable to exit their physically altered state. During their first ACTAEON Event, subjects usually experience a variety of side effects, such as an impairment of judgement and inability to recall the events that transpire while effected. These symptoms have often been likened to heavy intoxication. The symptoms lessen and control improves with each Event over the next few subsequent Events.
Addendum: Interview Nx-07-16.
In an effort to establish an overview of Nx-07's history and culture, Foundation representatives reached out to members of the Nx-07 community who had grown up in the environment. The following interview was conducted on September 4, 2009 between Ms. Amelia Deeds (native of Nx-07) and Dr. Theodore Ryan (Anomalous Relations and Negotiations Division).

Dr. Ryan: Good morning.
Ms. Deeds: Hi.
Dr. Ryan: Thanks for agreeing to do this.
Ms. Deeds: My pleasure. Anything for a friend, right? That, and you guys agreed to pay for the coffee.
Dr. Ryan: [chuckles] Yes, we find that that usually works as a good incentive. See anything you like?
Ms. Deeds: Hmm. I think I'll probably just get the black coffee, you?
Dr. Ryan: I feel more like sticking to tea this morning.
[Irrelevant Conversation Removed]
Ms. Deeds: So, anything in particular that you wanted to start off with?
Dr. Ryan: How about some of your earlier family history? When did your family first move here?
Ms. Deeds: Let's see… My great-great-granddad was one of the first outsiders in my family to move here, and that's as far back in the records as I remember. I think that was back in… 1911 maybe? Sometime around then. Came here from England because a friend recommended him for one of the fishing businesses.
Dr. Ryan: And was the atmosphere about the same then as it is now? Any major changes in the town's culture since then?
Ms. Deeds: Not much besides what's happened to the rest of the world. I guess relations have improved between the various types. Nowadays you just have little clusters among some of the kids. I heard that they actually had some street wars over it back in the Forties.
Dr. Ryan: Well, we can be glad that we don't live back then.
Ms. Deeds: For sure.
Dr. Ryan: So, that's some of the town's past. What about what's going on now? I know that you and your parents still live here-
Ms. Deeds: Right.
Dr. Ryan: -but what about other family? Any cousins living here? Do you know their thoughts on this place?
Ms. Deeds: No cousins, but, uh, but I do have an older sister who moved away a while back. I don't think it was that she disliked the, uh, the special aspects of the town, just that she wanted a change of scenery.
Dr. Ryan: What makes you say that?
Ms. Deeds: Well, just after she moved away she almost came back. Said she felt a little bit weird not having anyone around her who was in on the secret. That, and she missed having a tail.
Dr. Ryan: Haha. Guess that makes sense.
Ms. Deeds: Yeah. She's doing better now though.
Dr. Ryan: Glad to hear it. So, if you don't mind my asking, why have all of you kept this town a secret for so long? Not that I'm complaining, means less paperwork for me, but by the time we found out about the town, we were surprised it wasn't already plastered all over the internet.
Ms. Deeds: I think that there's actually a couple reasons for that. For newcomers, I think that, by the time they figure it all out, they're more concerned with getting used to the new lifestyle than spreading the word.
Dr. Ryan: Alright.
Ms. Deeds: As for the rest of us, I think that we just prefer it being more quiet around here. No TV Cameras or scientists poking and prodding us. Well, except for you guys, but you're usually pretty good about it. "You keep our secret we keep yours" kind of thing.
Dr. Ryan: We try our best.
Ms. Deeds: [nods] So there's that, and I think that there's just a general consensus that we enjoy keeping it a secret. Like one giant game of hide-and-seek with the rest of the world. We get each other here. We can relate in a way that a lot of other people can't. We have our little in-jokes that we can all laugh at and that get us strange looks from tourists. On some level, we all want to keep this to ourselves.
Dr. Ryan: Hmm.
Ms. Deeds: What?
Dr. Ryan: Nothing really. It's just that I've never heard it phrased that way, but it makes sense when you think about it.
Ms. Deeds: Yup. Anything else that you wanted to go over?
Dr. Ryan: Not unless there's something you specifically wanted to add.
Ms. Deeds: Nothing I can think of. You planning on watching the moon tonight?
Dr. Ryan: Unless I get held up by work.
Ms. Deeds: Alright then, I might see you later tonight.
Dr. Ryan: Maybe. Thank you for the interview.
Ms. Deeds: You're welcome. Bye.
Dr. Ryan: Bye.


Hub | Bigger Than Jesus »

"All right, if you could please step up towards the object," says the stone-faced researcher. The lone man in the room takes two tentative steps towards the box on the pedestal, wary of what is to come. A sharp click sounds through the room, echoing off the cold walls.
"Open the safe, if you will."
Inside is a pile of papers, neatly organized, and a large box of pens. The paper calls to him like nothing before. Without any hesitation, the man pulls the paper from its confines, spreading it on the floor so that he may continue this masterpiece.
The righteous ones emerge from beneath the stone, crying out for justice.
The visions are overwhelming, taking over all his senses. The man is not aware of the notes he is writing on the page, their meaning lost but their divine purpose resonating with each beat.
The sun blackens and the moon becomes red as blood, before they fall out completely, as the sky peels back like an old scroll, and stars fall while pure souls ascend.
The notes are coming from his hand much easier now, while the visions continue to dance around him.
Old mountains crumble while whole continents sink into the depths of the sea. From their ashes rise new land forms, as perfect and untainted as Eden. The strongest of the faithful retreat to the new caves, and call upon the rocks to seal them in.
"D-1875, stop writing."
But he can't, not even if he wanted to. The visions are too overwhelming. Even after the tranquilizer dart has hit him in the neck, he fights as hard and as long as he can to keep writing, to perfect this masterpiece, until he finally collapses from exhaustion.

"They're getting harder to stop," mutters a researcher, watching the unconscious D-Class be taken from the room.
"So what does that tell you?" asks Dr. Pherson, her supervisor.
"Something's changed. They haven't added a new sheet in over a year, though seven tests have been run in that time. And they're fighting the tranquilizers for much longer," she says, looking through her notes.
"Then what are they doing?"
"Refining the piece? Adding new notes? Some frilly extra stuff? I don't know, I was never good at music. Bottom line is they haven't added new pages, but they're still working just as hard as they would if they had been adding new pages."
"So what would you do if you were in my position?"
"I'd stop testing. I believe the piece may be close to completion."
"What would make you say that?" he asks.
"I… I don't know, sir."
"Think about it for a while," he says before leaving the researcher alone in the room.

The young researcher logs into the database from her Foundation-issued laptop with a plan. Her fingers fly over the keys while her eyes dart around the screen, looking for where she left off in her research. Most of the videos are uneventful aside from the grotesque test run back in 1973, which ran until the subject passed out from blood loss. This resulted in all testing with SCP-012 being suspended until three years ago, when Dr. Pherson's request to resume testing was approved on the grounds of seeing if an object's compulsive effect could be exhausted. Looking back two years, the average number of pages added during tests was around 15, with two D-Class managing to pull together a whopping 45 in an hour and a half long test run barely over a year ago. Then all of a sudden it just… stopped. No new pages have been added since, but the tests did become more frenzied, with more blood loss noted.
"This doesn't make any sense," she mutters, while traveling farther back into SCP-012's history at the Foundation. She tries everything she can think of to track what could have possibly changed. But nothing comes to her. She sighs in defeat, looking at her laptop screen one more time.
"Having trouble, Emma?" asks her supervisor.
"Yeah," she says.
"I take it all this mess is your notes on 012?"
"Bingo."
"Impressive. So what do you know about it?"
"Well these papers graph the the average number of pages added over three tests, and the ones you're holding are transcripts of the last four tests run where new pages were added, and I think I have…" she begins rambling.
"We already had all of these done. In the viewing chamber, you said you think the piece is nearing completion. Why?" He asks, while dropping pages in the recycling bin.
"I still don't know," she says, looking at the nearly full recycling bin and the piles of paper still littering the room.
"So what have you done?"
"I've looked at everything. The statistics, the transcripts… everything we've written about it since it came to the Foundation."
"Why did you cut off there?" He asks.
"Does anything before even matter?"
"It does if you want to know about the nature of the object," he says, looking around the room before walking out without saying another word.
She sighs and looks back at her laptop, clearly not done with her research yet. The documents leave her more confused than before, and she's ready to give up.
"Just one more. One more then you're done," she says to herself, taking a sip of her coffee.
One last document. The journal of K.M Sandoval, the man who found SCP-012 way back in 1966.

8 November 1966

The Basilica of Santa Croce after the flood

It is difficult to describe the devastation here.1 The Birthplace of the Renaissance, the Athens of the Middle Ages, all in utter ruin from the overflowing banks of the Arno River on 4 November. If the walls of water and mud that coursed through the city, fouling all in its path weren't enough, heating oil from a thousand underground tanks ruptured under the onslaught and spilled their contents into the deluge. It is this slurry that broke into museums, libraries, and churches like an army of barbarians, destroying countless artifacts, masterpieces, and manuscripts. Power remains cut off for most of the city, and even hospital generators have failed.
It is our duty to save the heritage for mankind that rests here. Mud, water, oil, mold, the threats are great, and the treasures remain scattered throughout the city. The National Central Library, on the banks of the Arno, suffered terribly—I cannot imagine how many thousands of medieval works have been destroyed by the calamity. I, for one, will seek whatever can be salvaged from the Basilica of Santa Croce. Not only does it contain many treasures, but underneath lie the tombs of so many of Italy's great men. Who knows what kind of devastation the flood has wrought upon these giants' eternal repose?

9 November 1966

We, The Mud Angels

They are calling us the Mud Angels.
We are trickling in, from around the world, trying to save the masterpieces throughout Florence. It is still mostly Italians that are here, but Frenchmen, Germans, British, even a few fellow Americans have arrived, and more arrive each day. We are staying with locals, and despite the stress we must be to our hosts, they house us graciously. Power has yet to be restored. The street lights are unlit. City officials assure us that the phones will work again in a week.
Staying with me in my room are two other Americans, Anderson and Spitzer. They arrived together, and work together back in the States. They say that they're going to clear out the National Library, see what texts can be salvaged. They've already offered to help me clear out Santa Croce if and when they have the chance.
The streets are so dark. The moon wanes rapidly, and the stars are so faint. A great person could die on a night like this, and no one would notice. More popular than Jesus? Could someone really think that?2 Music will always serve the Creator.

10 November 1966

The Crucifix of Santa Croce

The water reached four and a half meters inside the Basilica of Santa Croce. That's 16 feet. A full story and a half of oily water rushed into the church. The altar was shattered. Michelangelo's sarcophagus was submerged. Donatello's tomb took significant damage. The waters have receded, but mud and debris still cover the floor, and the water loosened and shifted the stones beneath our feet. Even the grand crucifix was defaced by the flood.
I helped other workers pull out the crucifix, take it outside to dry out. While in the back, by the altar, I noticed a disk of marble that had been dislodged. It looked like the mud descended into a hole. Tombs are littered throughout old European churches like this. More than anyone ever remembers. I have to see whether there's anything left down there. I keep feeling tempted to go back at night. When no one's looking. But Florence is so dark at night. No electricity, no streetlights. And the mud is so black.

11 November 1966

Inside the Basilica of Santa Croce

I did it.
I could no longer wait.
Anderson and Spitzer were complaining about some quarto that was exceptionally fouled by the mud and discussing new methods of drying out and removing mud from texts. It was quite heated and I stepped outside to clear my head. Walking the abandoned streets, my wanderings took me back to Santa Croce.
The night could not be more dark. It was the night of the new moon, and the only source of light was from the stars far away. Even if anyone else had bothered to roam these sodden streets, I would never be seen, enshrouded in night's shadows. Nevertheless, I crept into the Basilica, felt for the marble disk, and moved it aside.
Beneath, a waterlogged wooden staircase descended into a crypt. It was tight, long forgotten, and choked with mud. I slid down into the slick, inky depths, turned on my flashlight, and looked around.
The force of the flood had shattered the sole weak sandstone sarcophagus inside. Its occupant lay wedged inceremoniously against the wall, his long-decayed remains desecrated by the overflowing Arno River. Who this poor fellow was seems to have been lost to time and the flood, but he was apparently a musician of some kind. A violin, smashed and fouled beyond repair, was sunk in the mire, but he clutched two sheaves of paper—apparently buried with it. They are covered in the ubiquitous mud, but they may still contain something of historical value. I rescued them from their impartial reburial.
The stars must know what I am doing, and know that it is right, for they lit the way back to my room without issue.

12 November 1966

Anderson and Spitzer's handiwork

Sometimes, the task set before us seems impossible. And yet, we endure. Each morning's sun chases away the shadows in our minds and hearts, and we toil anew.
Having discovered our late composer's works, I knew I had to find a way to clean and restore these papers. I speak to my roommates and they show me what they are doing in the Library. In a spare storeroom on the upper floor of the Library, they have laid out tome upon tome of soiled works, all there to dry, slowly. There, they let the water evaporate from each book and then carefully brush away any dirt they can, then return it to the triage to dry further. It is slow, painstaking work.
The two sets of papers, I place to join the rows. The first is in abysmal condition, and I would never think it possible to read again. However, after hanging the first few pages on a line, I was able to make out one line towards the very bottom. I'm not sure what it means, but the author said that Il Mascherato — The Masked One — would pay him once his commission is finished.
The second papers aren't paper after all, but vellum — calfskin. Spitzer tells me they'll need special care, since parchment and vellum quickly warp in damp conditions. He takes them into a dry, darkened room, and stacks them between wood panels. Hopefully, they will be in condition to be viewed tomorrow. The mud covered the vellum so completely that I could barely make out a title…

13 November 1966

Artifice lies broken everywhere

Sul Golgota.
Italian. On Mount Golgotha. Although I cannot be certain, it looked like it was sheets of music. On vellum. A hymn to our Lord as he suffered on the cross. That crucifix is fouled, paint flaking off from the caustic action of mute, thoughtless nature. It will be returned to its rightful place of worship, but it will never be whole again.
I am spending the day resting. Santa Croce is being cleaned, but now that the artifacts have been removed, it is the purview of the shovelers. We, the Mud Angels, work elsewhere.
This mud is everywhere, and we can't even wash it off, really.
I'm going to check in the drying room. The symphony… something feels incomplete.
It's not ready yet. Still too moist.
Golgotha.
Our Lord was not the only one crucified that day. Two thieves were executed with Him. Dismas, the Penitent One, felt honor in dying with his God. Gestas, the Impenitent One, demanded the Lord free them from their just punishment. Both died on their crosses. What happened to their souls, it is not for the mortal likes of me to know.
It must be music. Life and death codified in sound where words cannot.
Close to sundown. Dusk has become my most active time. Everyone else is using the last bit of light the sun provides, and I start using the light of the wandering stars in the sky. They know what I've discovered. They proclaim the blossoming of orchestras.
I'm going to check in the drying room.

14 November 1966

Seven trumpets. Twelve apostles. 7/12 meter. That is the core of the awakening. One creature, seven heads, ten horns. That is eighteen. Thrice six.
There was a fire last night in Spitzer's vellum room. He used some of his cleaning solution, tried to make a torch, said he had to finish it. The stars' light does not penetrate into Spitzer's glorified closet. The electricity is still not back. He could not see that page anymore by night.
He promised me that On Mount Golgotha is unharmed. He knows the value of that piece. He knows how important it is to complete. He says he knows just how. I do not think he is up to the task. I told him I should go there with him, we should finish it together. He stopped, looked over to Anderson, and refused. Muttered something about containment.
All for the best. We still do not have adequate water. The supplies that are brought in are for drinking, not bathing, and so I still feel the stain of all the foul earth upon me. All this black mud. Black stains are not appropriate for the hymns to our Lord.
I must prepare. If I cannot commit it to vellum, I will commit the score to my mind. I can complete this. I will be ready.
Anderson doesn't trust Spitzer. He's leaving to check on him now.
I don't trust Anderson.

15 November 1966

Our Lord and all the saints are in pieces. The stain of nature impregnates and warps.

Panic. Chaos.
Opportunity.
Anderson paces back and forth. He keeps speaking into his recorder, keeping the microphone close while the box sits and whirs. Mentions how Spitzer is descending into madness. He has locked the door to the vellum drying room, the sacristy to our Lord. He keeps talking about how Spitzer must have been heavily exposed to the quarto… I correct him. There is no quarto. A vellum quarto, whoever heard of such a thing?
Spitzer is handcuffed to the bed. A huge, bloody gauze bandage is wrapped around his left arm. Anderson gives him pills to swallow, but Spitzer expectorates them when given half the chance. When he's not flailing against his bonds, he hums to himself and gesticulates into the air. He —
He has seen the fullness of the page. He hears the blessed symphony. He knows the stars call to him. Oh, the very thought that he sees the beyond, hears the clashing symphony, he knows what music we all must bow before in service to Him! Does he hold the insight into the Hymn of Hymns?
Anderson just rushed outside, frightful, shouting demands to know when the phones will return. His keys… Anderson fears Spitzer's enlightenment so much he has not seen it rise in me. I'm taking them. Bringing Spitzer with me.
And again Spitzer ejected me from his vellum room. How does he know that much karate? Judo? Kung Fu? Whatever it's called, he knows enough of it to block me and knock me back while bleeding from a gash in his arm. No matter. I am still too unclean from my expeditions.
Can they not see our Lord is dismembered? Tossed to the four corners of this Earth? Only two are left, and they are thieves!

S U L G O L G O T A
S L G O L O G O T A
S L G O L A G O T A
S L G A L A G O T A
S T G A L A G O T A
S T G A L A G O D A
S T G A L A G A D A
S T A L A G A D D A

16 November 1966

The stars fall for the fragments of our Lord!

Spitzer is dead. He could not finish it.
Anderson records the event in the next room. He paces like a caged beast, speaking at a fevered pitch. He keeps popping his pills, rambles about "memetic hazards" and amnesiacs. "This is not 701, the hazard is visual." Spouting numbers and word salad! How he descended to madness this quickly, I dare not fathom.
But no matter. Even those stars that have lit my path these last few nights, my guides through the shadows, they fall with a reddish flare before the might of our Lord.3 They turned the water back on. I can finally clean myself of this black filth that cakes me. No more mud. No more ink. Now, I am free to complete this sacred task with the purity of my being.
Our Lord bled for us. Take, drink. It is only fitting that we give ourselves, our body, our blood to Him for the sake of symphony. I now finish what I have uncovered.
I am unworthy. I cannot finish it.

Footnotes
1. On the night of 3-4 November 1966, heavy rains caused the Arno River to swell greatly past its regular size, resulting in the Great Florence Flood of 1966.
2. John Lennon famously claimed the Beatles were more popular than Jesus in March 1966, resulting in protests and boycotts of Beatles music. Also, according to the "Paul is dead" conspiracy theory, Paul McCartney was killed in a car accident the night of 9 November 1966, and replaced with an impostor. Foundation conspiracy researchers have proven this has not occurred. As of 1 September 2015, Paul McCartney is still alive.
3. The Great Leonid Shower of 1966 occurred the night of November 16. However, the bulk of the meteor shower fell over the Americas, and not over Europe. The origin of the meteor shower over Florence is not confirmed.