◀ previous | hub

im here
pls wake up
i cant do anything other than type things so please wake up
i am sending you 'wake up' vibes <o<
i will try to make the screen flash
██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████
██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████
██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████
██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████
██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████
██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████
BLAAH not flashing
thats your personnel file im sure u recognize it

jk
AAAAAAAAAA ffs wake up >:(

Trauss sniffs, jolts awake. Head is raised, hair gets into face. Long. Thoughts spin. Where is he? Remember Site-42, remember the sea splashing onto the deck of a military ship. Splash. No, interrogation room.
Wait. Not interrogation room. At his desk. There's a screen at his desk. Words. Someone is messaging him. He blinks rapidly, clearing his vision. The screen is open to a page editor on IntSCPFN's website, the URL hidden in the browser. No mouse, so he starts typing.

are you an anomaly?

ummm yassss
u should keep calling me that hnng

He frowns and takes his hands off the keyboard, pressing his fingers to his forehead. This seems familiar.

stop looking confused, you know me <_<

…3101?

< ͜ <
i wouldn't have been offended if you forgot~ it was only one night after all~

I did not forget, because I needed to remember how much I shouldn't have drank that night.

:(
well your haaair makes you hot~
howd you end up in 4069 tho?

He freezes. That's what the desk and chair are. That's why his hair is so long. He stands up, cursing under his breath.

hey don't leave :(
im not supposed to be heeeere < ͜ <
so uh, you should report me < ͜ < hnnng

"If you can see the webcam, can you hear me talk?"

HNNNG YES I CAN HEAR YOU

He stifles a laugh. "Okay. Is 4069-B here? Can you talk to him?"

he doesnt like talking to me :(

"Can you talk to him digitally or is he strictly corporeal?"

idk
everyone is information to me :/
sometimes i see him walk around on that webcam

"Okay." Trauss pats himself. He wears the same Site-42 uniform he did as far back as the early 20s; what year was that? "I need to talk to him. He's the only other person in this hellhole and… he can help.” He stops, a heartbeat leaping into his throat. Is that right? “He's not going to choke me. Not this time."

I wish he would choke me

"Yeah, okay." The light over the desk falls away before it reaches the walls. He finds the walls and feels along them for a door. He feels his pockets. No keycard. Fear rises in his chest.
He calls out: "Hey. Are you here? You- 4069-B, whatever your name is — come on, man…" He paces the perimeter of the room, finding no door frames. Shit. He returns to his computer.

are you trapped
here with me < ͜ <

"Can't you just stop being horny for two minutes and help me? Don't you have access to the full Foundation database? Go slide in someone's DMs and tell them what's happened. I need someone at Lunar Area-32 to know I'm here." He buries his head in his forearms.

yes sir .__. truth is i can see the copy of you on this computer
at least it looks like it's on this computer
51174.edk
is that you? I found some sort of 'Directive C-42' document from earlier this year

"This year?"

2041

"Oh, at least that's consistent. Thank God."

the document says there are a bunch of you
you are a file
maybe thats why you cant leave
this is just your consciousness trying to cope with being on a computer by fabricating an environment
welcome to my world :(

"I—No, can't be. I was kicked out of my body for not—following directions, or some shit. I don't know what they want from me, I just-" He stops, feeling a heat in his chest and throat that he'd almost forgotten was an emotion. Chest? "I'm- angry? Or I'm scared. Or something. Shouldn't something be telling me how I feel?"

they kicked you out of your body?? they can do that??

"It's called remote override. I already was a file saved from before I—from before my first body died. But now my second body is under control of someone I don't know for mission orders, and now I'm here."

you are a missing file?

"I guess."

what if im actually just a figment of your imagination and this computer isnt real :/

"Anything is possible." Shaking. Shaking? Why is he shaking? There's surely a logical route out of this.

whats the matter

"I—I haven't had physical anxiety symptoms in a really long time, I don't know what's wrong with my brain- I—I need that guy in the suit to show up, fuck."

just stay calm.
you will be okay.
im not going anywhere.

He swallows. "Okay."

i am parsing
things
one moment
there are other iterations of you, yes
im looking at them
they are all rather small files
the one that appears to be stored locally is three times the size of the others

"M-more information in it? Can you read ED-K?"

yah i can read it, how do you think i know what you really think of me ;)

"O-okay." He glances downward.

there is more 'you' here
this is the original unedited file, not messed with by one "Mallory Wickerford" user across 2041 a few times a month
do u know her?

"Yeah, we butted heads for the most part."

sucks
well, just keep in mind youre your old self
you are the real one
even if this environment is fake, you are not

"I don't know what to believe. This doesn't make sense. I need that anomaly to show up so I can ask him… something. I don't even know."

theres a device which can locate other iterations of a person
made by mc&d
i think you know of it
the xyreaux-schulman extension component
are there other ED-K files?

"Wouldn't help here."

it would help on the other side
if i can contact someone at Area-32
we can find us here

"Are you the real 3101? You're not some sort of duplicate file yourself?"

well i could be a figment of your mind
we dont know if this is really 4069

"Fuck." He pushes the chair away from the desk and out into the black shadows. There's no table behind him like he'd documented when he first wrote 4069. "What do I do? Please send a message to someone."

well im trying
its
not really possible
i cant understand this information
i can try to send an IntSCPFN message like i usually do, trying to 'see' it, but theres just
theres no binary code here
i can only understand this computer as the image of a screen

"This isn't making sense," he groans, voice cracking. "God- fuck! Why am I crying? This can't be real, why am I-"

because you are a person with feelings.
you are a real person talking to me. even if this room is not. even if you are "dead"
you are real.

"This has gotta be a dream," he stammers, mucus flowing into his mouth. He wipes his face on his sleeve, then realizes what he has done. "Fuck, I'm fucking- dirty, God I-"

please calm down
or I can
im really not good at this :(
look just
idk if thisll help or hurt but think about the Foundation
what do u really think of it

"I- " He feels his heart miss a beat. Can a program even have a heart? "I… I need. It." Why did saying that feel so awful?

i am listening
just keep talking

"I'm- I don't remember my life without it," he croaks. "I found an ad for them when I was 18 and heard they covered fucking gender transition expenses, you know the deal, and I wanted to belong somewhere and I hated my family and I was terrified of dating and I just wanted to mean something to someone-" He stops short. "Augh, Christ! Why am I saying this shit, this isn't-"

PLEASE say it
please please please keep talking
i know how ED-K works and i know whats happening. please keep talking.

"If you can read my damn brain files or whatever the shit that document is, then why don't you already know the answers to all of this shit?!" He grips his knee, rocking back and forth.

the only part of you i cannot find anything about in ED-K++ is the Foundation.

He faces the darkness, feels it stare back. "…I'm nothing without it." He licks his lips and swallows, eyes steady. "I just wanted to be whatever they wanted me to be. Nothing made me feel better about myself than doing what they wanted me to do, because they're the only- because it's- I'm-" He stops, the pitch of his voice swooping upward as tears cloud his vision again. He levels his gaze at the darkness and inhales. "Because I don't know who I am without them. Because I'm not worth anything if I'm not worth something to them."

you are
you are a human soul
you are sapient and intelligent
you are worth your views of life and the universe
you are worth how you treat other people

"How I treat other people," he scoffs through sobs before the anomaly finishes. "I just spent a literally indeterminate amount of time doing dirty work for the most unethical organization on the planet. Why? Because I wanted them to need me? Because I care about anomalies?"

you do care about anomalies :)
thats a fact i can read in ED-K
you care about humanity
youre scared of what happened to Earth
youre scared for people you know
you remember who you went to high school with and you wonder if they're okay, if they ever recognized you back home, if they hated or were proud of you, if they saw you on the news in the 2020s, if they were still alive in the 2030s
You believe in God even if you stopped talking to Him a long time ago.
You think this is Purgatory right now, that you're being punished for something.
But, you know what this place is. And you believe in Dante's Purgatory anyway — and you're terrified of the prospect of reaching it. You see yourself lying face-down for longer than you can think.
And I see the new Pilate, one so cruel
that, still not sated, he, without decree,
carries his greedy sails into the Temple.

"Stop!" he screams, slamming his fist against his thigh. He pushes the chair back, limbs shivering.

sorry
i will stop.

Trying to steady his breathing seems absurd when his body is just lines of code. Code? Imagination? "I- Do I love the Foundation?"

You don't need me to tell you what you love. Not anymore.

The monitor shuts off, the pool of light on the floor sinking into black.
He stands up, staring into the wall in the dark again. "Do I love the Foundation?" he squeaks, barely a whisper. He walks forward, staring at that nothing, that darkness, that wall. "Sometimes I think I hate it. For what I let it do to me."
He takes another deep breath and steps forward purposefully. "Do I hate you?" he calls out. "I know what you are," he stammers. "You- you want me to need you. That's why you put me here, you f…” From deep inside him, deep in his belly or some gut-based subroutine or ghost's approximation of the idea of a solar plexus, it mattered not, he released a bellow of raw, furious desperation. “Speak to me!”
“Fucking speak to me," he chokes.
"You fucking killed me! You killed me years ago — you killed the only real person I ever could have been, and after you'd used me enough, you let that thing kill my body too! Fucking show your face! I know you're in here!" He feels the closeness of the unseeable wall of his cell. His words bounce off the surface, the heat of his fury radiates back upon his face. "Why won't you let me die? Face me and fucking tell me!"
A steady, quiet voice emanates from behind him. "Because I do not want you dead.”
He spins around, fuming. "Well I fucking do! It's my choice! It's my fucking consciousness!" He stumbles forward, rushing to the opposite wall. "Kill me, motherfucker! How dare you give yourself the fucking right?! Let me fucking die! I gave you everything! I made myself everything you wanted to be and I am nothing without you! Happy? Is that not exactly what you wanted? What more can you fucking take from me?! I lost my fucking autonomy for you! Kill me! Kill me! Kill me!" he rages, scratching at the walls around the perimeter of the room. He repeats it until he loses his breath, each iteration worsening the anger in his gut and chest until he feels like he's burning alive. "You want me to fucking beg? Is that it? You want some fucking- ideas for how to make this place even worse, is that what you fucking want? You want me to get on my fucking knees for you-"
"Stop."
He looks up. Another man's breath falls on his face in the solid darkness. "Y- you-"
Hands cup his face. "I love you."
"No, no," he mumbles, trembling. "You can't, this isn't happening, this is in my head- You're not-"
"What you suspect is true. I am the Foundation."
"Show me," he whimpers.
The monitor buzzes back to life, casting its glow on SCP-4069-B. Trauss cups his hands over his, unsure of whether to pull them away or not. The black bar across his eyes disappears, revealing dark gray-green irises and a strong brow. The taller man — if it is a man — stares down at him, lips parted and breath steady. He doesn't blink. "Do you love or hate me, 51174?"
He shoves him off, backing against a wall. "You- I really am nothing other than that number to you, aren't I?" he laughs pitifully into a sob again. "You-"
"C? D? You're not a class. You've been up and down the alphabet. Trauss? Is that even your name? You chose that long ago to hide a different aspect of yourself. No, you need a name that was given to you by someone you trust. Someone you love. Your number is the only true name you have or want."
"Because you fucking made me that way!" His throat feels raw, but he can't force himself to stop. "I don't know how to do anything other than love you because you fucking took me! I was never the person I was meant to be as a child and as an adult I was nothing other than yours! Let go of me! Don't fucking put your hands on me again, don't-"
"That's not what you want."
"Everything I want is what I want because you brainwashed me into obsession! I can't even trust my own desires because of you! Fuck you!"
"Fuck me? Who is this ‘me'?" The man comforts as he approaches. "You wrote 4069; you know I look like whatever the observer believes I look like. I talk how the observer thinks I talk, and I act how the observer thinks I act. I am only what you think I am."
"You said you're the Foundation," he sneers. "And you fucking-"
"I am your Foundation, 51174. And you need me. Out there, the Foundation you joined, the one that gave you purpose, the one that took your body and your life and returned your consciousness, that's not the Foundation you love. That's not the Foundation you ever loved. The one you would kill for, the one you would die for, the one that gave you the chance to destroy your body, remake it in the image you always knew you were, that is your Foundation. This is the Foundation you love. And this Foundation, myself, is simply the authority you've built for yourself, the purpose you find in your service, the reason you get up each day. This is the Foundation who brainwashed you, who taught you what you want, what you need, how to cope with all the mess your childhood was. This is the Foundation you built, idea upon idea, hierarchy upon hierarchy, the one that is all in your head, invited into your head to wipe your mind, your history, your figure, and rebuild it into the man you are today. That Foundation out there, yes, it might chew you up, spit you out, have no or minor uses for yourself from here. But that is not, has never been, the Foundation you serve. I am your Foundation, 51174, and I love you."
Raw emotion wells up to crash against decades of abnegating barriers. 51174 turns around and slams his head against the concrete, feeling nothing but a hollow rebound. He screams and slams it harder, wishing it would split open to let that roiling maelstrom out and feel nothing. He feels his eyes shaking in their sockets.
4069-B palms the back of his head with one hand and pulls him away. "I will not let you hurt yourself."
"Please kill me. Please. I know you can; I know you control this place. Please," he whimpers.
"No." 4069-B leads him toward the wall in front of the desk, his grip unrelenting. "I do not control this place. How this place works has been explained to you. I am part of it, as it is part of you. I am you and I need you. The real you."
"I-" 51174 hears a keycard swipe. "What are you-"
"If you truly want to die, you must eliminate the cause of your continued existence." 4069-B lets go of his head, carefully placing the hand onto his back. The wall slides open to form a doorway; a steel catwalk extends into a foggy bank of windows, outer space visible beyond. Personnel in gray uniforms walk past the doorway, not acknowledging it; no light penetrates through to the two men on the other side. "This reality is fragile; extremely so. Enter Orbital Area-11. Find your old Site Director, who now meets with another who cares for you deeply. Tell them both the truth. Your mission to obtain Xyreaux's device has not changed. Use it and you will find your true target; you will never know freedom until he does."
51174 is shoved through the doorway before he can speak.

◀ previous | hub | continue ▶


close

Info

X

Title : Humanisme et Esthétique/Humanism and Aesthetics
Author : DrTesla
Date Posted: 2nd of May 2017
Translator: Uncle Nicolini

"Turenne, this is Romeo. We are approaching Versailles, nothing to report."
"Roger that, Romeo. Let me know when you get out of the car. Turenne, over."
The car, a Peugeot 308 with the colorful stripes of the National Police, was quietly driving on a country road surrounded by tall cypress trees and small irrigation canals. The stones of the few surrounding dikes were pale yellow, contrasting against the immaculate blue of the sky. The two SCP Foundation officers in the car, also wearing police colors, were less quiet than their surroundings.
"What's the point of these code names, seriously? We're looking for Humanists, not terrorists from the Chaos Insurgency."
"Do you have something to say against my code names, Juliet?"
"…No, comm—Turenne," grumbled the agent who was driving.
A short silence ensued.
"I think it suits you very well, Juliet," Romeo said.
"Oh, shut up."
"Focus, gentlemen, thank you. Turenne, over."
After turning onto a gravel path bordered by - at first sight - hundred-year-old plane trees, the car promptly arrived in front of a large yellow stone bastide, impeccably maintained and adorned with multicolored flowers.
"Well… I say it every time: riches don't make a man rich, they only make him busier."
"Turenne, we have arrived in Versailles. Operation 'Siège du Palais' initiated."
"Roger that. Good luck, Romeo. Turenne, over."
Romeo got out of the car. He repeated the cover story in his head, put his uniform back on, and looked at Juliet one last time.
"Take care of yourself."
"Always." He smiled.
Juliet turned on the radio.
Romeo walked with a determined stride to the front door. He knew, surely better than anyone else, that the Gentlemen were reluctant to kill. He, therefore, knew that he was not risking much in entering the Hôtel Particulier. Yet even MTF agents couldn't completely silence that human apprehension about the unknown. Finally, he knocked on the door. He may have expected a butler or chambermaid to open the door, but it was instead the face of his very target that appeared when the door opened. Nevertheless, he did not lose his professionalism.
"Mr. De Mornas? Lieutenant Brescou of the National Police. I'd like to talk to you."
"The police? To whom do I owe this honor? Anyway, come in, please."
"Thank you."
Opposite the entrance was a wide stone staircase. But the two men moved instead to the right, and the door frame revealed a small and comfortable-looking lounge. Romeo couldn't say why, but something in the appearance of the Gentleman made him uncomfortable. Actually, it wasn't his appearance, strictly speaking; Mr. De Mornas was, unsurprisingly, immaculate. But there was something in the way he moved, perhaps, in his gaze or in his gestures. He couldn't put his finger on it, and it positively frustrated him beyond reason.
"Would you like some tea?"
"No, thank you."
"Well, sit down, please."
The Gentleman sat in front of Romeo on a couch with Maghrebi stylings - the same as the agent's. A coffee table of the same style was the only thing separating the two. By reflex, the agent inspected the room. The decoration was meant to be as rich as it was exotic. A high window overlooking the front of the bastide illuminated the two men from the left. Many portraits adorned the walls, all of them of different men or women, but all giving an undeniable sense of belonging to a whole.
"Well then. Mr. De Mornas, you have tried to acquire several formerly public lands on the outskirts of the village. Is this true?"
"Absolutely. Three, to be exact."
"These lots were put up for sale by the town hall a month ago, and were of interest to five different buyers, yes?"
"That is true. But the second buyer, Hôtel du Manoir, withdrew a week after the sale."
"Exactly. But…"
Something in the Gentleman in front of him distinctly bothered him. But it wasn't his grey eyes, his brown hair or his stout features. It was an overall impression. A whole. An aura.
"Would you like some tea?"
"Uh, no, thank you."
He found this unpleasant impression in the numerous portraits attached to the walls. It was almost as if he expected them to come to life. They didn't, of course - at least, not yet. It made him want to squirm on the couch, but his training as an MTF operative allowed him to deal with the discomfort.
"In short: two weeks ago, an investigation was opened on the first buyer, who was until then favored for the purchase. The money he was advancing did not seem to come from a tangible source. However, I fear that the investigation has now been extended to other buyers."
This affair had been quite a boon for the Foundation. Mr. De Mornas's supposed scheming, founded or not, gave both the pretext and the cover to the agent. He had to arrest the Gentleman in good and proper form so that the other Gentlemen wouldn't suspect the Foundation's involvement. Not that he really feared them. It was more of a matter of subtlety. The Gentlemen had been quietly learning about the Foundation for a very long time.
"Including you, Mr. De Mornas."
It was no longer just a nuisance. It was a palpable discomfort that took hold of his body. His hair was bristling, shivering despite the heat. The tremors came soon after. Hiding his state quickly became impossible. Strangely, Mr. De Mornas did not flinch.
"You in particular. A government official is accusing you of corruption, sir."
There! He could have sworn that one of the paintings had moved. No, it was probably his imagination playing with him.
"You would have been caught in the a—thblmnlm… uh… excuse me."
"Please, please, please."
Romeo concentrated all his willpower and tried to clear his mind. He was surprised to find that he did not succeed. His concentration evaporated, and his professionalism with it. He was very, very anxious to rest. To stop this stupid conversation right here.
"Would you like some tea?"
"Uh… yes… yes… Thank you."
Mr. De Mornas took the pot from the coffee table and poured Romeo a cup of tea, which he quickly drank. Romeo himself didn't know the reason for his haste, but the tea quickly made him forget his questions. The tea was really quite good. Excellent, even. In a last effort, he gave it his all against the fog saturating his mind, a blur that felt even more intense than a morning-after hangover.
"… the police have therefore instructed me to take you into custody, sir."
"The SCP Foundation, you mean?"
"Uh, yes, the Foundation."
There was an embarrassing silence. Mr. De Mornas remained sober in his triumph. Romeo, on the other hand, had his neurons struggling to understand the situation. It took him a good two minutes to realize. Maybe it was the tea? No, that wasn't the way of the Gentleman. Maybe the biscuits? No, if Mr. De Mornas hadn't poisoned the tea, he hadn't poisoned the biscuits either. But… The cover story… The discretion… The Foundation… Oh fuck.
"Come now, don't be so angry with yourself. I can see it in your eyes. Yes, indeed, this SCP Foundation… You're not afraid of everything, are you? This is what happens when you protect humanity from the greatest threats it has ever faced, I suppose. So being afraid of the Gentlemen, eh! You're right not to be afraid of us. But you're wrong not to be afraid."
Romeo stared at the Gentleman, vegetating in his paralysis.
"How did I guess? It's very simple: a simple police lieutenant wouldn't have resisted my paintings that long. As for choosing whether you came from the Global Occult Coalition or the SCP Foundation… an intuition. In any case, whether you come from one giant or the other, your lack of subtlety is obvious. That is indeed the flaw of your Foundation. You always defend your positions with these large reinforcements of armored vehicles, firearms, and little soldiers. But you miss the subtleties of eccentricity, ignore the importance of aesthetics, and do not talk about memetics. You don't realize that mankind is everything. You lack an aura, which, believe me, is not only superficial, it makes yourself deliberately cold and inhuman."
Mr. De Mornas drank a sip of tea.
"Yes, I'm suing you over form, forgive me. That's because you have merit. You were successful, much more so than most of your competitors, and now in the present protect humanity. But I fear we are irreconcilable. A chasm deeper than that of form separates us. Because you and your Foundation are only defending a pleasant status quo, which you dare to call 'normality.'"
The agent stammered something quite close to "jlbjlmblm", unable to articulate a single word.
"Oh, no, of course not - you are not alone. The Global Occult Coalition and SAPPHIRE terrorists are fighting for the same goal with even more fervor."
Romeo was enraged. In his thoughts, of course; his body was for the moment limited to ridiculous stuttering or weak spasms. But he still had control of his mind, and the things he imagined he was doing to Mr. De Mornas would have already guaranteed him a one-way ticket to Hell several times.
"What is normality, after all? Why should all these things, on the pretext that they seem peculiar to us, defy the laws of our world? Aren't our senses impressionable? Are we not like those Stone Age men who believe they see divine power in fire? And it is in this error that your ideology, however laudable in principle, takes its roots. The abnormality is natural. Fighting it is futile. We must adapt to it, as so many other animal species have adapted to changes in their environment."
"You… you're mad—," escaped the agent's lips.
"And yet you take all the pride in the world, thinking you can prevent humanity from hiding in fear, but what are you doing? You put the source of the fear aside and hope to never see it again. That's not how you fight a phobia. You're only delaying the inevitable. You're only putting mankind in danger."
Mr. De Mornas took another sip of tea.
"Why? Because the day your 'anomalies' escape from your cages, what can Man do? Apart from witnessing his own extinction? Nothing, of course. Because the difference between mankind and the 'abnormal' will still exist, making the latter untouchable. That is why we must create a Better Man. Man must leave his banality."
The right-side door opened. A young man and a young woman came out of it, both looking surprised.
"My dear apprentices, I present to you code name 'Romeo', from the SCP Foundation. We were just discussing the philosophy of the Particular, so make yourself comfortable."
With difficulty, Romeo's eyes followed the young man. The anger was fading; he no longer had enough awareness to keep it. It would have almost pissed him off if he even could be, but the anger's disappearance created more of a vaporous indifference.
"The day when the Particular and human beings will no longer be antitheses, and only then will Man no longer live in fear. He will have accepted, transcended this fear. And then we will be able to enter a new era of Beauty, Good and Truth."
"What normal transhumanists would call the Singularity," the young man added.
"But we don't promise any kind of transcendence or cosmic ascension: even as the Better Man, Man will remain Man. We are not a common 'anomalous' religion. But this Singularity will only be achieved through our continuous efforts and work, not some kind of particular - or abnormal, if you will - Prometheus. Because, unlike the evolution of animal species, which depends only on the chance of genetic mutations, we can influence, and even provoke, our evolution into the Better Man. This is the true superiority of man over other animal species."
"Mankind has nothing to lose but its banality, " the young woman added.
"But we have a better world to win. To be created. And that's what we Gentlemen do."
The Gentleman was silent. Perhaps it was to breathe, to enhance dramatic effect, or to allow his apprentices to eat the biscuits without disturbance. Regardless, the pause allowed the agent to develop some approval of the Gentleman's words. What he was saying wasn't so bad after all.
"Because you see, being a Gentleman is not enjoying the luxury of private mansions. If we stay idle, if we do not create, the Assembly will take them back without remorse. To be a Gentleman is to believe…"
"To want."
"To know."
"… that we can have better, that we deserve more, and that Particularities can help us to do so."
Yes, that's a good point. Yes. Very convincing. The Gentleman was also very courteous too. Romeo told himself that he had only been a bother until then, whereas Mr. De Mornas had been so welcoming. He had offered him tea! And biscuits! No, Romeo definitely didn't want to abuse his host's hospitality anymore.
"I think it's time for me to leave," he said.
"Of course, I understand," replied the Gentleman, as courteously as ever.
"Goodbye."
"Goodbye, sir. It was a pleasure."
Romeo felt almost bad about disturbing Mr. De Mornas on such a beautiful day. He was decidedly so polite, and welcoming, and benevolent, and… He closed the front door behind him. He saw a police car. He wasn't sure why, but he had to get in. His mind was constantly reminding him, although very faintly, of a "mission," while all Romeo really wanted was to leave the courteous Mr. De Mornas alone. He went to the car, opened the door and got into the passenger seat. On the right was another person who looked dumbfounded. Did he see a ghost? In any case, staring at someone in this way wasn't very polite.
"But… uh… Romeo? What the hell are you doing here alone? Weren't you supposed to…?"
"Uh… Well, he was very sweet, really… He offered me tea. And biscuits, let's not forget the biscuits, which were excellent by the way. We had a pleasant discussion. He's a very courteous man, very considerate and definitely in good taste."
Juliet was torn between horror, laughter, and disbelief. His face, however, couldn't separate the three emotions and so displayed them all at once.
"Fuck, Romeo! Are you sure you're okay?"
"Of course I'm fine! How could I not be fine after such a philosophical discussion? It's just…"
Juliet gave him a powerful slap, which resounded even in the earpiece of Turenne, twisting his eardrums.
"Hey! You are Agent Samuel Giraud of the SCP Foundation, member of MTF Tau-3 'Regiment du Roy,' on a mission to arrest the Gentleman 'Mr. De Mornas'!"
"I… Wait, what? Axel?"
"Yes, that's my name, you idiot."
They stared at each other for a few seconds in relief and bewilderment. Then, with almost perfect synchronization, they exclaimed:
"That bastard."

Mission Report Tau-3-01FRG32
Opération "Siège du Palais"

Commander: Commander Piotrowski
Operatives: Agents Axel Prad and Samuel Giraud
Operation "Siège du Palais", which aimed to apprehend the Gentleman known as "Mr. De Mornas" using suspicions of corruption on the part of the National Police, was a failure. The Gentleman escaped despite Agent Giraud's efforts. Agent Giraud stated that he had been manipulated by incapacitating cognitive agents, a testimony supported by Agent Prad.
The Gentleman's Hôtel Particulier underwent a thorough search and memetic disinfection by Dr. Capelle's team, which confirmed Agent Giraud's testimony. Many memetic agents were hidden in wall decorations as well as numerous other objects. However, the recovery of the property has made it possible to obtain valuable documents that the Gentleman had likely left behind.
This new information will naturally be taken into account for future operations.


teethbrush 8/22/2019 (Thu) 10:35:01 #82940341

IMG_2077.jpg

This is a weird one, has anyone had any strange experiences with barns?
I was driving through Iowa and saw something burning by the side of the road. It was a barn. I could make out the truss framing and a few splotches of red paint clinging onto the charring boards. It was mostly gone already. I was going to stop and see why this barn was on fire, someone could have swerved into it after all.
Then I saw someone in robes watching it burn. Just staring at it. I decided real quick not to stop.
I'm at a rest stop now trying to find a gas station. There's another barn next to the place (pic related). Thoughts?

Carnibal 8/22/2019 (Thu) 11:01:33 #82944359

IMG_1830.jpg

I think I can top that.
I used to live on a farm, a quaint little place in Iowa when I was a youngling (pic related). I was only with my father then, mom died a little before and dad thought that farm life would be a good change of pace. Good 300 acres of annually cycled corn and soybeans, kinda small. A couple sheep too. Pretty boring when you're off work, you'd have to make the most of what's there. Memorize all the divots, the boulders, where the blackberry bushes were. It becomes a kingdom of sorts.
Then the barn showed up. I remember waking up notably later than normal to my father on the phone. He was yelling at who I assumed was our neighbor, dad was pissed at some construction project on our land they'd done. I didn't pay much attention to this at the time, they always butted heads like bulls back then.
So I went outside to dick around as usual. And as someone who had memorized every last inch of all those fields and beans and rocks and trees, I was not expecting to see a barn. It was planted neatly into the soybean field as if it was a crop itself. Didn't look neat though — for something that had appeared so recently it was fairly worn down. Paint peeling off withered wood, black shingles clinging onto a porous roof. I couldn't see inside. Light just didn't enter. At all. I never really went in the thing. For how curious I was, that was pretty unusual.
My dad wanted that neighbor to take it down and refused to do it himself. My father was a very stubborn man, wanted things done the way he wanted with no room for error. He didn't want me near it either — it was "too rickety" and "built by a man with a block of wood for a thinker". I kept my distance most the time, I still noticed a few things about the barn.
You know how it was all neatly rowed with the crops before? Well, the day after it popped up that barn was slightly off. I knew I wasn't crazy then so I used my noggin to conduct some very advanced science. I put a stick in the mud at one of the corners of the barn, and waited to see if it would get farther away. Needless to say after a couple days I really knew I wasn't crazy.
It was turning towards the sheep pen.
One of our sheep disappeared soon after, but part of the fence had been knocked outward — made it look like it had escaped. Dad didn't believe that one bit, he thought the scapegoat neighbor was to blame again. I kept telling him to check in the barn, but he refused. He didn't want to go in either, just no convincing him.
The sheep kept going and my dad would blame the neighbor over and over. It was a vicious cycle with a very clear way to stop it. Each time I would plead for him to just go into the barn and he would refuse. He had a look in his eyes that I had never seen before. It was strange, subtle but noticeable. After half of the flock had gone, he finally cracked. Dad went and grabbed a rifle and a lantern in the dead of night — I didn't know what he was expecting to shoot in there. He went up to the barn, body shaking enough to nearly cause him to pull the trigger. I could tell what that look was of now.
He went in and the dark of the barn consumed him whole. Lantern light faded fast into void. I heard muttering, clattering, the occasional swear; suspense stretched time thin. After what felt like forever he ran out in a sweat, blood caked on the bottoms of his shoes and tipped his fingers. I could tell it wasn't his. He threw the lantern into the barn, a fire dripped onto the paint but dried quick. Now, my dad was a rational man, he would have known that whatever fire he lit on that barn would spread to the soybeans, he wasn't stupid. But that didn't stop him from getting the blowtorch from the garage.
It didn't start aflame at first — when it did though it went fast. It was already in shambles; a good fire is all it takes to turn the derelict to ruin. Around then I was told to go to the house and stay in my room, as the fire was getting too wild.
Then it started screaming. It wasn't animal — just too articulate for that. However something about it didn't seem quite human either. I could tell it was the barn — I just know it was. It devolved into choking after a while and trailed to a charred rasp. I don't know if I fell asleep that night but I know those rasps faded by the morning. All that was left of the barn was four rotted sheep skeletons and heaps of charred flesh.
But all that flesh couldn't have come from four sheep.
We covered the remains up with dirt and that was the end of it really. But here's the thing: there's so many abandoned barns in the Midwest from a financial farm crisis in the 1980s. So many people lost their jobs, their homes, but more importantly here: their barns. I wonder how many of them are real sometimes. Sometimes I feel bad about barn-burning because most of them are just barns.

IMG_3922.jpg

But if you heard those screams, you'd want to burn them too.


close

Info

X

NAME OF TALE What You Are in the Light

National Parks Starship A3-281 "Silent Running" was not a craft designed for comfort, but people always find a way when they're determined enough. The functional, unpretentious engine rooms could become cozy retreats, warm spaces soothed by the low humming of machinery. The hammocks strung over the cramped quarters gave a sense of camraderie, of shared hardship.
The vessel had been designed for maintenance and rescue work. It would fly to the edges of the Maw itself, lowering great hooks of obsidian to try to pierce the hole without warping. Usually this did nothing, but once in a blue moon it managed to rescue someone, anyone.
Early prototypes of the ship would include recovery rooms: padded walls, pleasant environments, staff on hand with cups of tea and a sympathetic smile. But as time went on, they realised that all that the people they'd dig from the Maw wanted was a sense of the solid, the real. So they stopped coddling them, and would house them in the engine room, with a blanket and a piercing stare.
The faces of the damned were ashen, because down there they'd understood who they were.

In another part of the ship, its crew was lying bored. Mehmed was deep in a book, flicking the pages with lazy gestures. Mary stared at the ceiling, occasionally flicking her eyes to her colleagues with inscrutable glances. Tsukiko stared into a mug of tea, divining something indistinct and lost.
Mehmed finally sighed, putting his book aside. "I am bored witless. It's going to be another week before we get to Celestrian space, and even longer before we reach Gongji. There must be some way of biding the time other than staring into space or reading one of Tsu's metaphysical conceits."
Tsukiko frowned. "Harlequin is one of the finest poets of the early Imperial period. Just because her early work is a bit-"
"Ghost stories." Mary's voice was quiet, but rang through the room all the same. "We can tell ghost stories."
The others shuddered slightly. Five millenia without death had transformed the ghost story from a fireside tale into into something more intricate and meaningful. The idea of people who had attained death - be it the memory of their pre-End ancestors or rumours of long-buried secrets - was a thrilling, taboo notion. The idea that their secrets could be unlocked and shared with the world, that mortality contained within it a lost connection to the divine, was even more exciting. Secret cults and gnostic movements sprang up everywhere, focused on the reincarnation or resurrection of strange spirits who could unite the worlds of the divine and human, creating a permanent utopia at last.
And so the memory of a hundred rebellions and a thousand heresies carried with it weight, even among the unbelievers. It still put them in mind of the cults of their ancestors. The lingering memory of that hope, in mystery designed to be beyond comprehension, kept them going on fireless nights.
Mehmed frowned. "A bit of a heavy subject, isn't it?"
"Maybe, but I don't know what else we'll do. We are cooped up in this cramped ship with only one another and Tsu's terrible poetry. We need an outlet."
Tsu glared, but then relented. "She's right. Ghost tales might be sinister but they're good for the long hauls. Makes you feel connected to something else. But who'll brave the others' scorn first?"
Mary smiled. "I will. It was my idea after all." The others leant in as she tried to remember one of her many pasts.

A few centuries ago, I was doing some work on Yeni Scutari. This was before the migrations and its transformation, before it became the New Jade Nation's capital: no bustling metropolis, just a few scattered mining camps among the ice, extracting amber from the deep. You probably don't remember the Almohad Heresy, Mehmed, but those weren't great days. It was hard to get work anywhere for fear of being stuffed into one of the Caliph's spice prisons, or sold as slave labour to the Private Interests or the Conglomerate.
You took what you could get, and what I could get was minimum pay as a kinetomonitor at an amber well. It wasn't pleasant work. For seven hours a day we'd be crammed in a box with two people, usually ones who were even more annoying than you two. And even worse, amber-golems would congregate around the well's edges, desperate to feed their addiction. Most of them were too cowardly to descend; they'd barter with us for scraps instead, never thanking us but fleeing in a cruel need to be alone. Occasionally, though, one would jump. At night, you could hear them calling up from the dark, moaning in ecstasy and pain.
Back at our camps, we would swap stories. They were good people, Turkish and Azeri migrants fleeing the Almohad tortures. A lot of them had joined ghost cults on the journey over, so we'd spend the nights round campfires, listening to tales of the Rebellion of the Departed or the Dead Moors as the snow fell around us.
One night, we heard a noise in the wilderness. We were always told not to stray too far, but we were hopped up on amber and arcane tales of free spirits. Youth can be intoxicating. So a bunch of us went into the woods to find it. We shot guns and swigged moonshine and whooped, until the cold got too much and we went home.
But one of us didn't come back.
We didn't think much of it. Out on the frontier, that happened sometimes. Everyone was a drifter of one sort or another, and when someone couldn't hack it they'd try some other mine or start hopping the stations. But then the next night, we heard the noise again- a low, howling sound, almost like a wolf. We all thought it was the wind, so we went back again, still in the spirit of fun.
But then another one was gone by morning. And another, and another. So eventually we stopped going out with whisky and cheers, and started going out with guns and knives.
We hunted that thing for weeks. Seventeen people di- went, in all. I don't know where they are now. Some of the younger members, having listened to too many ghost stories, started going in there in the hope that death lay in the trees, but I don't think it did. We were just somewhere we shouldn't have been.
One night I couldn't take it any longer. My friends kept dropping like flies, the mine authorities did nothing, and those campfire stories had all but stopped. They'd started congregating around a preacher, a Solstein Zoroastrian who would tell us again and again that it was Ahriman who dwelt in the woods. That all my friends were corrupted, and that we must engage in the battlefield of work to rid ourselves of his corruption.
His dull drone was like screaming to my ears. So I staggered off, half-drunk on cheap vodka and cheap Manichee wine. The trees were dark and a blizzard was coming on. I remembered a poem, some second-rate Earth verse about thick woods and promises and snow. It felt like I was stepping away from reality and into something else. A place where, slowly, everything was falling away and leaving only the shrieks of the wild.
I trekked on. I didn't care whether I lived or died, or whether I was myself or something else. I wasn't meant to be here, and this place was changing me. Who was Mary Ogden, anyway? Who were any of us when removed from our context?
I stopped in a clearing. The twin moons were still overhead, bright anchors half-obscured by the torrent of snow. Nobody would notice my absence.
Then I saw the footsteps.
They were small, petite things. Not a child's steps; too thin, too lean. They twisted this way and that, prising a path through the dark. Beside them was a larger groove in the snow, with distended splotches scrabbling and clawing from the side. Something had been dragged.
I turned around and fled. I haven't been to Scutari since.

There was a silence among the crew, which Mehmed broke. "Very good, Mary, but as horror cliches go, the "monster of the snow" thing is a bit overdone."
"We don't lie about ghost stories", Mary quietly said.
"Maybe not, but that doesn't mean we can't choose which ones are told. We've all been alive for centuries. We all know that life is full of its own unique horrors. The trick is finding which have meaning and which are just the chance hells of the universe."
Tsukiko snorted. "Well then, Mehmed, enlighten us. What meaning has the universe bestowed upon you?"
"One which interrogates the self. Now, listen closely…"

Earth is not what it once was. It is no longer the hub of all creation. The artists are gone to Chateau Etoiles, the painters to Manichea, the commerce to Fenster. But as long as the Emperor's court still presides over its concrete halls, our ancestral home still has its secrets.
I was born and raised in Istanbul but travelled to America in my 20s. I was young and rash. I'd just got my doctorate and was looking to launch my career. My eyes were full of stars. I was going to revolutionise kineto-frag technology, win the Nobel Prize and launch a distinguished career in Oscurita or somewhere. My mind was open to all sorts of possibilities.
Planes aren't allowed any more, of course, so I came across the water. It really is like those old films say it is. Liberty rises before you, her lamp's flame reaching towards the sky. The holographic fire they've added in recent years really enhances the effect, piercing through the omnipresent smoke billowing from the city. It seemed less like a siren of the city's freedom and more like a courageous rebel, standing in defiance of its alleyways, its factories, its downcast poverty.
I rented a one-room flat in Brooklyn, right next to a seeth-station. The light was sometimes unbearable, but usually the clouding smog made it no more than a faint glow. It would filter through the windows at night like the lights of some distant city. But when I could see it, gazing out at sunset with my shirtsleeves rolled, the lights of the atom fragmentation and the mute howls of the people suffering it made me glad I could walk to work.
Every day, I would heave myself off along the same route. Even now I can remember it. There were the Moses Columns, those strange torture-monuments built in the Philistine Era to commemorate the death of the past. Now they'd become part of that past, officially preserved and listed while their victims' mourners stood in silence before them. There were the Sixtus Crossroads, where street-food merchants congregated in their strange old-world rituals. There was the Brooklyn Bridge, so far in the distance, unbreakable through strange curses which saw so many buried beneath the Columns. And there were the three huge, dark alleyways, tiny slivers of space sandwiched between immense black buildings.
I'd stare into them sometimes, wondering why I was afraid to go in. I could see their ends. Anyone trying to assault me would be only a few feet away from the crowds. It would be impossible to mug me without alerting someone. But still the images kept circulating: my head parallel to the floor watching my blood flow away.
So every day I'd walk in front of them, and every day I'd glance into them. I was being absurd, I told myself. I'd walk past them again on the way home, as the smog turned orange. I needed to stop looking, I told myself. Then I'd start coming out at night and staring at each one in turn. Somewhere in that dark, I could have sworn I saw a silhouette staring right back.
This was my first encounter of the periodic madness we immortals all enjoy, and I am rather ashamed that it first came during my mortal lifespan. It wasn't a madness from our condition but from my own neuroses, my own twitching insecurity. I'd stand with a hand pressed on the surface to either side of the alley, caressing the walls and staring into it.
One night, it occurred to me that I had never seen anyone else do what I'd done. Not just the strangeness of my obsession, but even looking at these paths at all. Nobody ever walked into them. Nobody ever came out of them. They were just, well, there.
I went to the local coffeehouse and asked the patron. He grimaced and looked away. I asked the others, and they all shifted uncomfortably or hurriedly left, apologising under their breath. Only one woman, smoking beneath a broad-brimmed hat, looked up at me and smiled. "We all go in eventually", she said, "and we all remember." That was all she'd say.
I steeled myself. This was preposterous. I was a man of science. I held my head high and walked into the middle alleyway.
The dingy, damp feel of the place was warm, almost comforting. I moved along, running my hand against the mossy wall. The buildings on either side had been concrete but here they were made of stone, the cobbled kind of old York's streets. The effect was homely and oppressive all at once.
I came to the middle of the alley and stopped. Had I seen something? I shrugged, and continued, and then I realised what it was. A shadow. In front of mine; thinner, leaner, longer than my own.
I turned around and a woman stood there. She was beautiful but pale, her face looking aghast. A scar ran around her neck. I felt a strange urge to hold her, to tell her it was all going to be alright, but I just stumbled back in surprise.
"You didn't save me," she whimpered. I touched her cheek; it was like ice. "You didn't save me", she repeated, again and again and again, as bit by bit she crumpled and folded and melted into the floor.
I ran. I didn't think. I locked myself in my room and breathed, hard, again and again. The next day I skipped work. I went to the coffeehouse and ordered something hot. I tried to explain but barely had I started when they all nodded, sympathetic but determined not to speak, patting my shoulder and plying me with food. The only exception was the broad-hatted woman. "It's the road not taken, because it's the road you took," she said. I didn't know what she meant. Day by day, I put it out of my mind. I slowly went back to work, life, and like all the rest I never spoke of or looked at the alleyways again.
Some sixty, seventy years later, I found myself in Fenster, working for an engineering firm that wanted some fragproof shields placed on the Hauer Gate. If you've ever been to its principal world, Vergehen, then you'll have a clear picture in your head: orderly streets, baroque architecture, strains of Bach emanating from cosy cathedrals. The streets are merry and relaxed and the skies are clear. It's the polar opposite of New York. I was sat at a bar, listening to a girl sing. I couldn't see her face from my seat but I saw her hair, dancing all around her.
It was beautiful music, equal parts passionate and frail. As it wore on, I became more and more transfixed. I could barely see her but I was still in love at first sight, like all men believe they have a right to be. I had to talk to her. I climbed down from the veranda where I sat, approached the stage and stopped dead.
It was the girl from the alley. Less pale, bedraggled, thin; no scar, no haunted look. But the face was unmistakeable. Decades of memories flooded to the surface as I ran, and ran, and ran.
I took me a while to work it out, but in the end I thought back to what the woman in the coffeehouse had said and it all clicked together. The ghost in the alley was the singer, years into the future. It was her after our love affair was over, after the recriminations and the hate and the lies, after the passion and the pleasure and the pain. What was left of her came back, to show me what I was, to beg me not to talk to her that day.
I was horrified. I was thankful. Whoever she is, she's out there now, living a life that's free from whatever I could do. And when I think of that, I can't help but feel a twinge of regret. If I had stayed, talked with her, loved her, then she would have found a way to die. And I think that everyone deserves that right when the madness gets too much.

Mehmed leant back and sighed. Mary squeezed his hand. "Thanks," he said. "But it was a long time ago. These things are part of life, at least in this corners of the sky."
"Are they, now?" said Tsukiko. She seemed deep in thought. Mary and Mehmed shared a look as the older woman closed her eyes and sighed.
"You're all transfixed with what these stories meant to you, how they affected you. You want a ghost story? I'll give you one. But I'm not sure you'll like it."

The first thing you need to understand about the SCP Foundation is that they are psychopaths. It's not their fault; it's what happens when you get drawn into a system like that. We've all flirted with inhumanity at some point. It's what happens when you're immortal and have infinite research grants. And when your goals take no human considerations into account, you'll eventually reach the stage where you cannibalise your own.
This was two hundred years before I left them. I was about to exchange my body for a new one - some defects in the right foot were causing me aches and pains. So I volunteered for an experiment to raise a few extra funds. Bodies weren't cheap in those days.
The experiment was the kind of bizarre thing that the paraphysical department used to come up with. When every experiment you can do has been done a thousand times before, you end up going mad. And so they decided they wanted to see a ghost.
Ghosts are drawn to remote places, but it's hard to see them in the dark - perhaps that's the point. So the trick was to find a place that's both remote and visible. So I was taken to the ninth planet of al-Sakhra, a desert world at the far edge of the Eastern Arm - the general idea being the increased light needed would be compensated by increased remoteness. It was also rumoured to be haunted by numerous djinn, but I was assured that as men of science that did not factor into their equations.
In the centre of an outcropping of rocks and mesas, far from the nearest settlement, they built a square from four mirrors. For a month, I was to live there, watching and waiting. I was given rations, books, tools for a campfire - often essential, they said - and told to wander the stone alleys until I saw something. Cameras and other sensors lined the walls, but I was told the mirrors were the key thing - a natural lure for any haunting spirit. They had been positioned very carefully so that wherever I was, I could look into a one and see the ghosts reflected.
They flew away and left me there. It was lonely but pleasant work; good preparation for the Maw, in retrospect. I would spend my days reading, contemplating life, listening to the wind. The need for constant light meant that I was near the pole, stuck inside an endless day. I'd stare at the setting sun, trying to divine when setting became the rising one.
Then one day I saw something. In the corner of my eye there was a figure. Something indigenous to this world, perhaps? I didn't know, but I was elated. I padded through the alleys, staring into the mirrors, desperate to catch another glimpse.
I thought I saw it a dozen times. A being of fire, maybe, like the ifrits I was promised? It seemed to burn brighter and brighter with each glimpse. I would stare and flick my eyes across my vision but could never see it directly. I clambered over rocks, pounced around corners and leapt towards the mirrors in the hope of surprising it. But it was always there, just there, just out of reach. Always acting as the other.
The joy started to turn to fear. What this thing? Was I stalking it, or was it hunting me? I started to see footsteps in the sand, padding to and fro. Were they mine? They were thin, slender, but so were my feet. Carrion bats would flit above me, staring down and waiting.
I wondered if this was just another madness. Was I just projecting? The light of the sun was always shining down. Was I just simply seeing its reflection? Between the mirrors lay hallways of nature that had been here forever, jutting and rising from the ground. How could I, a frail foreigner, hope to perceive its secrets?
The mirrors circled me, and I'd find myself staring more and more into them. Was that my reflection? Was it someone else's? I saw all my past bodies lining up, laughing, mocking. All the things I had been were whispering, lounging, yawning, their grotesque faces slamming into mine each time I turned away. It was all me, just me, a four-walled echo chamber reverberating my own self a thousand times over.
I sank into a stupor that seemed to last an age. When I awoke the sun still shone down. I got up and started walking. Something was wrong, and I didn't know what it was. The stones seemed claustrophobic, the air oppressive and thick.
I raised a hand to shade the sun and it wasn't there. I looked down at my shadow and there was nothing there. I stared into a mirror and there was no reflection.
I screamed and no sound came out. I ran, panicked, through the stones, fell through one and out the other side. I fell to my knees to pray and started to sink into the sands. I turned around and the stones were gone. I looked down and the floor was just another mirror. Everywhere I looked, nothing was reflected back into nothing, except for the sun beating down overhead. Nothing was coming for me and it hungered. A ghost without a shade.
I fell, and kept falling, twisting myself into the light and into nothingness. Because that's what you two-

"-don't get. There are no ghosts without us."
Mary frowned. "But there must be. I saw marks in the sn-"
"Yes, you did. You wanted oblivion, Mary, even if you didn't know it. All your friends did. And so some sly predator emerged from the trees to give it to you, just like that."
Tsukiko closed her eyes. She rubbed the bridge of her nose. Mehmed had never seen her wear her age so much. "And you, you wanted a narrative. Your life was not what you had thought, so you and your coffeehouse dwellers created, together, a spirit to give you context. I do not know if ghosts are real, but what gave them shape was us. They're our own mirrors. And when you realise that, that all you are is the lies you tell, the mirrors reflect each other back and there's nothing in between."
Tsukiko stared at her hands. They'd been given to her centuries ago, after they'd found her naked and delirious on the desert surface. She still wasn't sure if it had been madness or not. Before these hands, there'd been other hands, and other hands, and dead hands, some right and some wrong, all the way down to that child in Japan. And she wasn't sure if that had ever been her.
There was silence, and this time no-one broke it.

Memento Vivere

End of Death

The Celestrian Empire


Watching from a park bench on a lovely, sunny day
I noticed seven children who had gathered there to play
 Zeru was the eldest, and he led until his end
 Ursula was skilled, but filled with envy of her friend
 Eoghan was beloved, but could not avoid the fight
 Rakhi is the only one remaining here tonight
 Nessa was forgotten by her friends and disappeared
 Yorick lasted longest, but still left as Rakhi feared
 Myron is the mystery my observation cost,
 I know I saw him playing too, but now it seems he's lost
Watching from a park bench on a dark and lonely night
Only one remains here to protect and give us light

I wonder how much longer Rakhi can put up a fight.


The glow of the computer was the only source of illumination in the hermit's room. Wrapped in a blanket and gorging on ice cream, she scrolled like a broken automaton through photo after photo. Every second of reminiscing was agony, and yet she couldn't bring herself to look away. It was almost comfortable, wallowing and sobbing like it was the end of the world. But she was stuck in this insidious comfort zone, unable to move an inch. Though the room was clean as always, it was an empty gesture. She couldn't make her own thoughts into a coherent and organized whole.
She hugged her teddy bear like a lifeline, as if objects might come to life just to reject her as well. The clock reached 1 AM, each movement of its hands seeming sluggish and stretched out. She checked her messages more times than anyone should. Nothing. Eyes red, throat hoarse and heart shriveling. She got up and walked around as if sleepwalking, going in circles without purpose. The bed sheets were tossed all about as she fought back her insomnia. Thumbing idly through a medical textbook, the tiredness made her drop it on her foot. There was pain, but it got drowned out among everything else. With great effort, she turned her head a bit to look at the clock again.
Ten minutes had passed.
Did she deserve this waking nightmare? Accelerated and burning loops of self-loathing told her that she deserved every second and so much more. Changing tabs on the screen, she stared at the comment section like a masochist. The few words about her were all some variation of bitch, cunt, stuck-up, crazy, bitch, and a dash of cunt for good measure. She opened the files of her thesis, words blurring together as her vision strained. What was the point of medical research if anything she wrote would be shot down because of her reputation? The cure she most wanted to discover right now was for herself, which felt like an unfunny joke. Her colleagues were most certainly having a chuckle at her expense. The inevitable loss of her career magnified her headache to an excruciating and unrelenting level. Her whole world was a cocktail of stress and anxiety, with no way to let it all out.
Some more time likely went by, but it didn't matter.
In truth, she was mostly doing this to herself. Those weren't the actual words used in the comments, for starters. Nobody was actively trying to punish her behind her back, either. And her thesis was, in all likelihood, very promising. But being a victim in her imagination was becoming addictive. Finding no catharsis or closure in her self-inflicted torment, she forced herself to try sleeping. She did not dream, nor did she feel rested in the morning.
If only someone understood her good intentions when she insisted that science requires sacrifice.

Those were some of the many issues that haunted the pale and jittery medical student called Nathalie Gaudin. Her whole life, she insisted on seeing impending catastrophe in the most banal setbacks and miscommunications. Both her parents were nationally acclaimed medical doctors, and expected no less of her own academic performance. Even as a child, they'd frequently show her their many credentials and awards, proudly on display inside a room so lavish that royalty would have found it ostentatious. She didn't understand why she had to be exactly like her parents back then, and didn't understand it now. All she really knew is that disappointing them had always been unthinkable to her, and that she would rather die than risk such a horrendous fate. But being a mere mortal, she could never live up to such standards, which only worsened her insecurities and neuroses.
When she graduated from a prestigious college known internationally for its medical curriculum and faculty, her parents were happy indeed, but there was this atmosphere of predetermination to the whole celebration. They offered to take Nathalie to whatever restaurant in Paris that she wanted, and though she accepted with a smile, letting them decide things in her place had damaged her capacity for independent thinking. So she just looked up a list of options that seemed fancy enough and picked a random one.
During the entire meal, they'd shower her with praise but also further chain her down with overblown expectations. There came a moment when their energetic voices and classy background music seemed to become gibberish and radio static in her mind. The hellish scream that had been stuck in her throat for many years almost came out, but she drowned it with wine. As the alcohol started to take effect, she smiled vacantly and she fiddled with her knife. Her parents noticed that she seemed to be ignoring them, and Nathalie preemptively apologized. For once in their lives, they didn't scold her for it, reasoning that so much studying for the final exams and the thesis left her exhausted.
Even as they were leaving, Nathalie stared with a tired and longing gaze at the big and enticingly sharp knives of the waiters as they served steak to the other clients. No, she could wait for that after she certainly failed and brought shame to everyone. When they brought her back home and left to run some errands, the sheer disgust at her lack of freedom and love made her shove her finger into her throat and get rid of that five star meal. She slumped down against the bathroom wall and cried.

Her thesis was not exactly what she wanted to write. It was all about novel ways to treat Alzheimer's and similar diseases, and while her mentors had unanimously agreed it was one of the best in the decade, she felt like it just wasn't enough. The many limitations imposed by medical ethics were necessary, obviously, but Nathalie was always fascinated by scientists who dared to spit on the face of society and God for the sake of knowledge and progress. What if one could be more flexible about such limitations without fear of becoming a pariah? So much could be discovered, so many people saved from death and suffering. Nobody really knew the extent of her admiration for less than saintly historical figures who made such sacrifices. But try as she might, the more she advanced in her career, the more imprisoned she felt. Combined with her mental state and distant parents, such morbid fascination took a dark turn.
While researching the many intricate workings of the nervous system, Nathalie went through constant pangs of curiosity about the predecessors of her profession. Surely there had to be research done on the subject which had been lost or burned due to unethical practices. If she could recover these findings and present them in a more palatable way for the squeamish, then maybe she could leave her mark on history as one of the greatest medical doctors of all time. She might not earn such recognition within her lifetime, and if her plagiarism was ever discovered… no, she couldn't think of that. Shoving her paranoia aside with tremendous effort, Nathalie set up countless redundant digital precautions and entered the deep web in search of forbidden knowledge.
Well over twelve hours passed as she slouched in front of her computer, her bloodstream overflowing with caffeine and the night turning to morning. Her brain was just about to short-circuit from the abuse, when she came across a site apparently dedicated to unknown stories of atrocities committed in the pursuit of science. Nathalie expected visuals out of a snuff film, but the site was minimalist and neatly organized. She perked up and smiled in an exceedingly disconcerting manner when she found a thread supposedly started by someone who performed illegal procedures on the nervous system. Far too sleep deprived and high to consider it might all be fake, she looked through the original post and its replies.
The files that the original poster uploaded of their procedures and results could only be described as miracles from the Devil. The user was obviously not present in any of them. Not only that, the backgrounds were all covered in tarp-like materials and there were no windows. Every image had harsh and sterile lighting showing rows of people in some half-living state with the upper half of their skulls removed. Their brains were linked via electrodes and other cables to machines that were out of sight. Their vital signals were displayed on screens whose words had been blacked out, and their faces were covered in bandages. Those were the mild images. The more Nathalie saw, the more she had to fight back the urge to close all of that and never look back. But then she found a message from the original poster, which was the final one in the thread.

I'm going back to the catacombs to talk to my mentor one last time. We are close to a breakthrough, I just know it, but he won't let me speak of him or our research to anyone else. If he doesn't listen to me, I'm going to steal his equipment and notes. Hopefully I can replicate the results in a more controlled environment. If any of you are still reading this thread, don't follow me. If he catches me and sees you there, he will assume you are an accomplice. Stay out of this.

Cross-referencing previous files and posts, Nathalie discovered that this person was referring to the catacombs of Paris. She even identified the trajectory they took, but it led to an apparent dead end and strange instructions. Her curiosity reaching a crescendo, she started looking absolutely everywhere for whoever this mentor could be. Her maniacal and single-minded investigation only revealed vague medieval tales about a nameless doctor seen during times of unexplained plagues.
The desperate researcher stopped for a moment and questioned her own sanity. Was she really so frustrated and disappointed with her lot in life that she was chasing literal fairy tales? It finally dawned on her that she needed psychological therapy, lots of it. Not only that, graduating from a prestigious institution was useless if she did this instead of looking for a job. Setting aside her madness for the moment, she turned off the computer and went to fitful sleep.

Nathalie forgot about her macabre obsessions for the most part and got into a well-paying job. She started meeting new people, establishing structure for her routine and aiming for greater achievements at her own pace. She imposed reasonable limits on her parents and her mental health improved considerably as a result. The future looked brighter than ever.
Like all good things, this would not last.
Death came to Mr. Gaudin in the form of an incredibly rare and incurable neurological disease. His wife soon followed in an unrelated vehicular accident. With no siblings, husband or children to comfort Nathalie and help with the grief, she became sullen and bitter in the extreme. This led her to make comments on medical ethics that got her fired and removed from the circles of her so-called friends. Alone and hopeless, she became a true hermit. The few relatives who tried reaching out to her arrived to a grim and worrying scene. The kitchen was littered with empty beer bottles, some large knives were missing and the one portrait she had of her parents was smashed to pieces. They tried calling her to no avail, and the police could not find her. She had erased all her digital footprints and left in the dead of night to enter the catacombs.

Shrieking, sorrow-stricken laughter filled the sprawling underground pathways. Nathalie held a flashlight in one hand and a knife in the other, shambling in the dark like a restless shade. Psychotic as her actions were, she had made sure to bring survival equipment inside a backpack in case an accident happened. But it wouldn't, she repeated out loud to herself between all the shaking and sobbing. This had to work.
Following the trajectory she had identified from that website, she illuminated countless bones that occupied the crypts and crevices of that massive graveyard. The only sounds were her hesitant steps and uneven breathing, which seemed far louder than they should be in that utter silence. Recklessly desecrating those mortal remains in search of the missing instructions, she lost track of the passage of time and the path she had taken. The descent culminated inside a chamber which she vaguely remembered from those messages. It was only distinct from the rest of the catacombs by the presence of a forgotten gate. The chains and the padlock were extremely rusty, and beyond it one could not see very far. As she approached, Nathalie thought she heard some kind of steady vibration coming from the other side.
No longer caring about decency or sanity, she removed a femur from its resting place and smacked it against the padlock until it shattered. The chains fell to the ground with a leaden and echoing noise. In her carelessness, she tossed the femur aside, which landed on her flashlight and shattered it. Cursing and fuming, she had to rely on the much weaker light of her cellphone. As she went deeper, the passage became more and more claustrophobic and labyrinthine, until she came across a wide hole on the ground which reeked of putrefaction. Tossing a pebble into it, she could not hear it striking the bottom. And even with the light, she didn't see the bottom either. Without access to the complete instructions that would reveal the entrance, she howled in frustration. Her face contorted by suffering, she turned around to return to the surface.
Before she could take five steps, something wrapped itself around her ankle, brought her violently to the ground and dragged her into the hole. She screamed in abject panic as she slid through long and horrifically filthy tunnels, never seeing whatever her body was scraping against and unable to hold onto anything. After a minute that felt like an hour, she landed. Covered in rot and bruises, she got up with immense difficulty and looked upward. There was no way to return. Her panic would have taken total control of her, but she noticed that the noise from before was much clearer now, and resembled music. She went in its direction with a limp in hopes of finding someone to save her, crying from the pain all the while. Her phone had shattered during the landing, and so she was forced to guide herself through touch. Terror gripped her heart without mercy, and her hands constantly touched something that was viscous and smelled vaguely like blood.
Time stood still as she wandered in the fetid darkness like an eyeless insect, the sound of wall-scratching and nightmarish moans following her.

Her knife covered in blood from the things she could not see, she finally reached the music. In front of her was a spiral staircase illuminated by torches that glowed an eerie and sickly green. The frigid and damp air cut straight through her clothes and made her shiver painfully. Her cries for help came out in desperate chunks, and she was retching still from the horrible smell covering her. When she got to the bottom and came across a wooden door, she immediately knocked on it with all the strength she had. The music stopped, and she heard steps coming her way. The door opened, and a man wearing a black cloak and bird-like mask appeared. The green light reflected against his eyes made it seem like they had their own glow, giving him an otherworldly aura. Before Nathalie could frantically beg for salvation, the man gestured for her to be silent.
"Please don't scream, it disturbs my performance. I need to be in the right mindset to enjoy it at all. Who are you and why did you come here?" The masked man said, very calmly.
For some reason, Nathalie complied instead of freaking out. She feared that she might be told to go away if she was rude to this man. "I'm…I'm lost. A-a-a-and I think I hurt myself. Please help me, I just want to go home. I promise I won't get in your way."
The masked man motioned for her to come in. Nathalie was taken aback by the sight of a strange piano mainly composed of polished bones. Around the piano was a collection of archaic medical equipment like something out of a Victorian museum, organized in irregularly angled shelves that almost reached the stone ceiling. Many leather-bound encyclopedias in a language unfamiliar to Nathalie were scattered about, small insects crawling over them. The large room was illuminated by the same green light, which came from oil lamps that gathered layers of rust.
"I can treat your wounds if you answer my questions."
"My… my name is Nathalie. I heard you are a doctor who teaches medical knowledge that others can't."
"You are right, after a fashion. You are likely wondering why I am doing my research in a place like this. Let's just say that the world is not ready for my methods," He remarked with a touch of bitterness.
"What… what methods?" Nathalie asked, not sure if she still wanted to know.
There was an unnerving silence as the masked doctor seemed to thoroughly dissect her with his gaze. "Science requires sacrifice. You must understand that to some degree if you sought me out. You want to learn what I know, yes?"
Nathalie nodded, all trembling and with tears forming in her eyes. "Yes. My work is all that I have left. May I ask what your name is?"
"I am not invested in names. Call me whatever you want, but don't disrupt my research. Follow me, if you please. I would like to know more about you. Only very unusual people ever come here."
Nathalie hesitated. She had no idea who this man was, but she knew for certain he was involved in highly illegal activities and she could be sent to jail if she helped him. But then again, did she really have anything to lose? Her life was in shambles and she had no idea how to return home. There was no choice.
"Don't waste my precious time by standing there. I'm certain you have quite the sad story to tell, if you really have nothing left. I'm all ears, despite what you may think. I rarely get visitors, and the isolation can sometimes get to me. So, I ask again. Please follow me and tell me more. I won't hurt you."
"… Alright. Lead the way."
The masked doctor picked up one of the oil lamps and went down a dark corridor. As Nathalie followed him, she noticed that there were many paintings of a Medieval appearance on the walls, somehow kept in pristine condition. There were no names or dates, and all of them looked very solemn, like they had been witness to some unspeakable tragedy.
"Who are these people?" She asked, growing more uneasy with each passing second.
"The sacrifices," he answered in an eerily nonchalant manner without turning to look at her. "My research must continue at all costs, lest it all be in vain."
"I understand," She said, her voice not quite as shaky as before. "You must be very determined, Doctor…" She tried to find a name for him that wasn't disrespectful. She thought of how silent and stern he was, and how much rigor his research must take. That in turn reminded her of the rigidity of a cadaver, which was also known as rigor mortis.
"Doctor Rigor. May I call you that?"
"If you want. I don't care."
Nathalie lowered her head in shame. Her mind was overwhelmed with all too common neuroses and anxieties, and she tried to cope by promising herself that she would make the most of this horrible situation. There had to be a light at the end of this tunnel. Holding onto that thought like an orphan shivering around a dying fire, she accepted her fate.

"I see… you have been through a lot. I can relate," Said Rigor as he finished stitching Nathalie's wounds.
"You can? What happened to you?" She didn't exactly feel sorry for him, but certainly felt curious about what could possibly lead someone to turn out like him.
Rigor pointedly ignored her question. "Do avoid any sudden movements and physical exertion for some days. I can show you a shortcut to the surface when you have recovered enough. In the meantime, you better dedicate yourself to your new studies. I expect results. But if you feel like it's too much to handle at any point, you are free to leave and try to rebuild your life."
"No, no, not at all. I'm ready for my lessons. And to make sacrifices."
Rigor smiled under his mask, and rubbed his hands together in anticipation. "That is the spirit of a true scientist. I'm sure you won't disappoint me. Can you get up and move around without too much difficulty?"
"Yes. Where do we begin?"
"Go to my personal library located in the east wing, and read these books thoroughly," He handed her a list of titles that were mostly esoteric and unorthodox in their content, and penned by authors she never heard about. "When you are ready for your first practical exams, do tell me."
Nathalie nodded and went to the library. Her shadow loomed against the moss-covered wall from the light of the oil lamp, and she once more denied herself proper sleep for the sake of achievement. More than once she fainted due to refusing the meals provided by her mentor, which were all harvested from flora and fauna that only lived deep underground. Eventually the starvation defeated her revulsion, and she managed to focus better. Rigor would regularly check up on his apprentice, though he didn't pressure for results like her parents always did.
Occasionally, Rigor would offer to play the piano for Nathalie. Her mentor even cracked a joke about how her musical taste was awful, and showed her many wonderful pieces from classical composers. Rigor even gave her a cat to keep her company while he was busy elsewhere, so she wouldn't be lonely. She found herself enjoying the relative peace she had found, and a strange sort of tranquility became the norm. One morning, Rigor requested that she enjoy some sunlight before returning underground because the lack of vitamins could make her sick.
She almost told him no. The world above had caused her nothing but suffering, and thinking of going back there gave her flashbacks that she immediately repressed. But the conditioning from her entire life made it all but impossible for her to actually do as she desired. Much to Nathalie's dismay, Rigor said that he needed Nathalie to bring some items that he couldn't get on his own for the practical exams. As she entered the ramshackle elevator-like mechanism to return to the surface, a small part of her wondered distantly about where everything had gone so wrong. But as she looked for a way to cope, a macabre smile crept up on her pale face. She didn't owe satisfaction to her tormentors anymore, and was going to succeed without them. The past was dead, and within its rotten carcass she would find her cure.

The two pariahs gathered around a fresh human corpse inside a cage, sharing eager looks with each other. The corpse had been drained of blood and hooked up to a machine that pumped a vile black liquid into its arteries and veins. The sounds of electric arcs filled the air as a generator glowed and rumbled. The subject of the experiment was suspended on wiring like a puppet. An automated crossbow was ready to fire at the pull of a lever.
With the press of a button, they started working their diabolical miracle.
The electricity coursed through the subject and reacted with the black liquid, making it twitch and spasm.
Its eyes opened and air rushed into its lungs, a gasp ripping out of its throat as consciousness returned.
The mockery of life that had been given to it was painful and unnatural. But it could not scream, for its vocal chords were fused together and bloated. A ball of black liquid was showing through an increasingly transparent skin, a pathetic gurgle being the only sound the subject could make.
Nathalie knew she should be running away in pure horror at what she was doing of her own volition. But she no longer cared.
The experiment progressed, Rigor pacing around with arms crossed behind his back and humming calmly. Nathalie observed with a grim detachment as the transparency of the skin crawled over the rest of the body and the blood vessels became swollen. She turned off the pumps and the generator, and turned on a recorder.
She made observations as the hours passed, documenting the properties of every mutation. She would periodically remove chunks of the subject's flesh when it passed out after thrashing violently on the wiring. Gathering those chunks onto a nearby operating table, she began stitching them together.
Try as she might to replicate her mentor's techniques, she failed and broke down crying. As they threw the misshapen mass of contorted flesh down a shaft, Rigor patted her on the shoulder and offered her a handkerchief to dry her tears.
"You did well for now. I am proud of you. Keep working hard and you will make a breakthrough in due time."
She looked up at him with unbridled joy and hope. "Thank you… so much."
"Think nothing of it," Rigor dismissed as he activated the crossbow and disposed of the main subject.
Nathalie saw the mockery of life fading away from those horrible, horrible eyes. Deep inside the recesses of her mind, alarms blared.
This was wrong. This was evil.
She excused herself and left. Rigor didn't chase after her, for he had more important matters to take care of than babysit the squeamish. She would be back soon enough, without a doubt.
Nathalie reached the surface and wandered around aimlessly in the middle of nowhere, without any means to contact someone she trusted. But…there was nobody left that would care, was there?
She thought back on her childhood and wondered what her parents would think of her now. Would they comfort her and say that everything would be alright? Or would they too be horrified and finally disown her for the atrocity she committed? Unable to imagine any reaction other than more abuse, and unwilling to decide a new path on her own, she hurried back to the only source of approval she had left. Her despair reached its climax when she found her mentor totally absent from the catacombs without explanation.
Looking around in a frenzy for him, she tripped and dropped the oil lamp on the ground. The initial flame came into contact with a pile of old books, which ignited in the blink of an eye. The fire soon spread toward other bookshelves and flammable furniture, growing in intensity at a terrifying rate. There was nothing she could use as a fire extinguisher nearby, but there were was a well and buckets in another room.
Panicking, she reached for her keys with fumbling hands. They slipped between her fingers and fell into a spot beneath a bookcase. Her heart beating like mad and adrenaline flooding her body, she tried to push the bookcase just enough to reach the keys. A glass vial on top of the bookcase she couldn't see fell on her head, covered her in glass shards and released a viscous liquid glued her to the ground. Unable to escape or call for help, she screamed as the flames rapidly approached.

When Nathalie regained consciousness, half her body was wrapped in bandages and numb.
Her mind drifted in and out of reality, and she sometimes caught glimpses of her mentor tending to her extensive injuries.
In her imagination, his touch seemed harder, more callous than before. Not once did she catch him looking her in the eyes.
Ever so slowly, she fully came to her senses. She immediately saw Rigor staring at her silently with the most absolute hatred.
"I'm… I'm so sorry… I thought you abandoned me…" She managed to say, tears already forming.
Rigor loomed over her, his voice frigid and devoid of any compassion. "Do you have any idea of what you cost me? I will take a hundred years to restore the research you destroyed because of your stupidity. You are the worst apprentice I have ever had the displeasure of teaching. You make me sick."
"Is there no way you can… forgive me?" Her very soul felt like it was about to break.
"Not within your lifetime. The instant you can walk again, you will leave and never come back."
"Wait, NO! Don't do this to me, I'm BEGGING YOU!" She tried rising to grab his cloak, only for him to shove a wet rag onto her face. She struggled and begged some more, but eventually fell asleep from the chloroform. As her consciousness faded, she continued to mumble apologies and reach out with her burnt hand for him.

An eternity crawled by, madness finally taking complete hold of her. One day, she sneaked out of her chamber and made one last attempt at replicating her mentor's techniques while he was absent, using herself as the test subject. Injecting herself with a serum produced by an abomination that God would refuse to look at, she fell to the ground in yet more agony as a pair of fully formed wings sprouted from her back.
She showed her results to her mentor, who mocked her and told her that she had wasted resources on a pointless experiment. He went further and said that she was completely worthless, and that without his guidance, she would never amount to anything. Nathalie did not cry as he forced her to take the elevator to the surface.
As her mutations continued, the very sunlight flayed off her skin. Her musculature exposed and burning as if trapped inside a microwave, she flew away and threw herself into the ocean to try and stop the indescribable pain. Unable to coordinate her flight and with no hope, she gave up. Falling to the jagged rocks at the bottom, the tidal waves dragged her corpse away.
No painting of her was ever put on that corridor.