Mountains and valleys. Trees that fell apart into sharp crystals from too sharp a gaze. Fog. Cold. The sky was blue-gray, and the three moons were only vague specks in the distance. No significant water, but damp and moldy all the same. Only one native animal, and it was the Vopling: a mold-grazing, winged worm. Flightless.
Though the competition was fierce, Asphodel was, by far, the gloomiest afterlife in all Corbenic.
The deceased never settled there for longer than a few days at a time, and only out of necessity. Only two poor fellows lived there permanently. One was Belphedge, the king of Asphodel. When his subjects escaped to friendlier planes, he buried himself alive in a dry creek bed, and never found the motivation to dig back out. One can only hope he's satisfied.
The other was the Hill.
The Hill found his home in Asphodel over 14,000 years ago. It woke up from a great and miserable sleep to a stabbing pain in the back of his head, poison leaking into his brain – and before he could even fight back, he was in the Great Desert of Corbenic, amid the rest of the bewildered dead.
After a brief rampage of devourment, the Hill discovered, to his horror, that he wasn't hungry at all. In life, fistfuls of squirming striders and weeping humans would have been a blessing. Here, they were optional, and a bit of a waste of energy.
With his life's purpose lost, the Hill wandered in search of a quiet place to brood and plot his next move – Asphodel. If anything, it reminded the Hill of his old homeland.
Millennia passed, and still he sat, frustrated. Though he had been called the Devourer in life, passers-by now called him the Forgotten Giant, Living Hill, or simply the Hill. Forests grew on his flesh, and itchy clutches of Voplings festered in his skin. The will to scratch them was all but lost.
And there it sat, in silence.

“By your forever-unremembered name, the Malikir Tsoh, I demand to speak with the Dread Devourer of Worlds, Bane of Erikesh – Date of Death August 27th 2031, Earth, Multiversal Iteration 1L.”
For one thing, this was the first time anyone had spoken to him since the days of Keshpeth and his Ten Thousand. For another, this creature knew his true name, and didn't confuse him with whoever that “Scarlet King” peasant was.
Still, the Hill hadn't been in the mood for a conversation in 14,000 years.
The Hill's eye opened, tearing apart gnarled tree trunks that had formed on his lashes. The ground shook as he turned his neck for the first time to identify this bizarre creature.
In the valleys to the far north of Asphodel, there sat a tiny group of dropships, several soldiers, and a radio dish pointed toward the Hill. The words “PERCEPTION-AUGMENTED TRANSLATION ORDINANCE” sat painted in the dish – words that had no Erikeshi equivalent, so they only annoyed the Hill further. At a small podium at the base of the dish – a human military commander of some sort, and the source of the strange voice.
“My name is President Girard Niang of the Three Moons Initiative,” continued the voice. “I come bearing—”
“Go away,” said the Hill. His voice cracked; his throat was nearly mummified from neglect.
“I'm afraid that's not possible, Devourer. Not until you hear what I have to say.”
”You forget your place, human.”
A brief pause, and the human replied: “Suppose that makes two of us, then.”

The ancient sparks of anger and hatred began to form in the Hill's heart – welcome after such a long absence. ”And what, do you think, is my place?”
“A throne. I seek a mighty warrior-king, said to have laid waste to countless nations. I seek the one who laps up the flesh of armies as if their screams are the finest mead – well, I think that's how the saga puts it, it's been a while. Maybe wine? – no matter. Point being, you're supposed to be the Devourer of Worlds, the Conqueror in Fire – and here, I only see Wallower in Self-Pity.”
A flash of fire shot from the Devourer's nostrils, igniting the forests that had formed there. “None have dared to disrespect me and—”
“Lived to tell the tale?” said the President. “Very well. I'm standing right here. If you're going to devour me, you might as well get it over with. I've had a good run, haven't I?”
Several minutes passed. The Devourer glowered at the President, hoping he'd give in to his fears and escape. No such luck. Clearly, this man was a warrior with courage unmatched by even Keshpeth and his ten thousand. (That, or it was the 73 island-mounted railguns aimed at the Devourer's head from the second moon, but that's a story for another time.)
The Devourer sighed, and closed his eyes. ”Did you come to mock me,” said the Devourer, ”or do you seek something of importance?”
“Wait, weren't you going to devour me? Or was that just—”
”Answer!”
“Fine, fine. Here's the thing – the Three Moons Initiative have something to give you.”
”I want no gift.”
“I think you will, once you hear what it is.”
”The one thing I desire is peace, and you continually deny me. Go away.”
“We can give you purpose. A great battle is coming, Devourer. Now is the time for all good men, gods, and otherwise to come to the aid of the Earth, Iteration 2N. We can't cross the anti-organic aperture into 2N – but your flesh is a different matter entirely. And on the other side, you will find an opponent worthy of —”
An arm, covered in scales, trees, and terrified Voplings, pried out from the side of the Hill. Forming a fist, it slammed the ground. The surrounding mountains split and caved in upon themselves. Fissures cracked open into the acidic subcontinental coral reefs of Asphodel. King Belphedge was shaken from his grave – he fell into the scalding waters, grumbling that his nap had been rudely interrupted.
”GO. AWAY.” roared the Devourer.
They didn't.
“There, see that?” said the President. “That anger? That's the kind of energy you miss, isn't it? You and I both know that you don't want be cooped here forever, brooding and sulking.”
”Yes, I do!”
“So, what, you're just gonna be an angsty little lump in the Asphodel skyline for all eternity?” the President laughed. “JALAKÅRA as my witness, this is rich. Wait until I tell Keshpeth.”

“You will do NO SUCH THING!” A few of the President's soldiers clutched their ears from the shout.
“Okay, look, Malikir Tsoh, you want me to leave you alone?”

“YES.”
“Fine! But on one condition.”
”WHAT?”
“Get your shit together, Devourer! The Foundation in 2N doesn't even call you Apollyon-class anymore – but I do! I believe that you can turn this around. Don't let the fact that Iteration 1L killed you in your sleep keep you from bouncing back. I believe in you! And when this is over, instead of fearing you silence, the people of 2N will sing your praises in their taverns until they vomit, hailing you as a hero! All we ask is that you make that first step forward.”
…
An hour passed of uncomfortable silence. The radio dish was folded back up. The soldiers returned to their dropships. Niang cursed under his breath, mumbling something about “we'd have better luck weaponizing Striders,” and was about to board the skiff back to his airship –
– when he heard a grumbling phrase, one of the few he recognized from his non-translated Erikeshi. It meant “who is my opponent?”

Earth, Iteration 2N. November of 2035. As per the Three Moons Initiative's instructions, the doorway containing SCP-2317-K had been launched into space, six months earlier. Niang said it would buy them “a few minutes.”
Cooperation with the Initiative hadn't been smooth. Contingency Zadok-9 "Nightmare Regent Blue" was downright lunacy, but one answer was better than none.
The Administrator of the Foundation sat in her bunker's office, her finger hovering over the enter key, under a CRT monitor from 1982. A prompt on the terminal asked for final confirmation of the Ganymede protocol. The Devourer's seventh chain had broken only an hour ago. With any luck, she thought, he'll kill us all in one blow. Won't have anything to clean up, that way.
Her phone rang – O5-1's number. She picked it up.
“Okay, three updates,” said O5-1. “One, the Devourer just crossed the orbital path of Mars, and is expected to make landfall with Earth in thirty minutes.”
Her finger twitched over the enter key.
“Two, a second Devourer has appeared over the moon, and it's headed directly toward the first one.”
Her eye twitched. “A second Devourer?” she said.
“Affirmative. Three – the second one has three crescent moons painted on its back.”


Deer Ghoul School Odyssey
⁂BuckStopsHere

It's almost time for the annual #DeerCollege #Halloween🎃 bash! Share your costumes, treats and tricks here using the hashtag #DeerGhoulSchool

ECHOES 25
HUMS 82

5:05 PM - 31 Oct 2019

Monstrous Fixation
⁂FixItFeliz

#DeerGhoulSchool PSA: don't buy ANY 'temporary' Lycanthrope charms. I don't care how much you want to be a werewolf for a night, they can damage your psyche permanently. #Halloween🎃

ECHOES 31
HUMS 35

5:10 PM - 31 Oct 2019

Go Go Going Ghost
⁂GhostedPodcast

#DeerGhoulSchool #GhostedPodcast is hosting its annual #Halloween🎃 ghost hunt!! Meet in the atrium of the Wormwood Library at 6:00. Will provide cider, cookies and protective wards.

ECHOES 41
HUMS 59

5:14 PM - 31 Oct 2019

SKELETON QUEEN
⁂necromanster

No offense meant to ⁂GoldenAppleYouth, but has anyone noticed them acting kind of weird lately? Haven't seen them outside of their housing much, and when I do, they're always trying to peddle that cider of theirs. Also ⁂DeerEggplant #DeerGhoulSchool

ECHOES 21
HUMS 18

5:20 PM - 31 Oct 2019

The Eggpumpkin
⁂DeerEggplant

⁂necromaster Thanks for your concern, but we Discordians are fine! This time of year is sacred to us, what with the apples and the sense of unreality and all. Just observing our religion! #DeerGhoulSchool

ECHOES 1
HUMS 24

5:22 PM - 31 Oct 2019

Go Go Going Ghost
⁂GhostedPodcast

#DeerGhoulSchool The annual #GhostedPodcast ghost hunt has begun! We're going to be exploring the haunted history of Deer College! Tune in to our Twitch channel, sponsored by ⁂DeerEggplant for updates!

ECHOES 31
HUMS 64

6:00 PM - 31 Oct 2019

Boo Who?
⁂AntimemeticBitch

#DeerGhoulSchool ⁂GhostedPodcast are people EVER Going to fucking learn that Halloween ghost hunts are a bad idea? Following the Leylines, GhostHuntUK, even the hacks at Gotham Ghosts have had horrible experiences on Halloween.

ECHOES 15
HUMS 96

6:01 - 31 Oct 2019

Rap Tap Tap
⁂MixedTapes

I gotta agree. Had a cousin go missing investigating Sloth's Pit for a ghost hunting show on Halloween. Think the Skippers got him.

ECHOES 5
HUMS 26

6:03 - 31 Oct 2019

Teratophiles Non-Anonymous
⁂MonstrumPride

#DeerGhoulSchool Anyone else smell apples near the Union? Like, just a completely overwhelming smell?

ECHOES 83
HUMS 104

6:05 PM - 31 Oct 2019

ZolSister
⁂GorgonZola

Okay thank god it's not just me. I saw some Discordians doing a ritual in the dining hall, think that's connected?

ECHOES 83
HUMS 104

6:07 PM - 31 Oct 2019

Deer Ghoul School Odyssey
⁂BuckStopsHere

#DeerGhoulSchool ⁂DeerCampusPD is investigating large EVE disturbances on campus. They advise all students to stay inside safe areas until they can locate the source. Details to follow.

ECHOES 120
HUMS 85

6:16 PM - 31 Oct 2019

Deer Ghoul School Odyssey
⁂BuckStopsHere

#DeerGhoulSchool ⁂DeerCampusPD advises that if an area suddenly develops a strong, apple-like scent, vacate it immediately until such a time that you no longer smelllllllllllllllllllllllllkldslka;a;klds

ECHOES 150
HUMS 42

6:18 PM - 31 Oct 2019

Deer Ghoul School Odyssey
⁂BuckStopsHere

OH GODS WHAT TEH FUCK IM SCREAMING INTO THE MIC TO TYPE MY ARMS ARE THE SIZE OF TREE TRUNKS

ECHOES 5000+
HUMS 5000+

6:22 PM - 31 Oct 2019

Golden Apple BOOth
⁂GoldenAppleYouth

Happy #Halloween🎃 to #DeerGhoulSchool! Until the sun rises, enjoy your new chaotic, monstrous forms! Just try not to hurt anyone! Unless you're into that. #NoJudgement :^).

ECHOES 5000+
HUMS 5000+

6:25 PM - 31 Oct 2019

Deer College Police Department
⁂DeerCampusPD

While we do respect the religious freedoms of all students, the ritual performed tonight by members of Golden Apple Youth resulted in several thousand non-consensual instances of transfiguration. As soon as we are able, we are planning on arresting all participants in this ritual.

ECHOES 305
HUMS 96

6:55 PM - 31 Oct 2019

Deer College Police Department
⁂DeerCampusPD

We are currently incapable of making arrests due to, among other things, our inability to properly operate computer equipment, open handcuffs, or enter vehicles. The campus's wards have been activated, so no ingress or egress is currently possible.

ECHOES 400
HUMS 98

6:58 PM - 31 Oct 2019

ROAR-sidence Admin Kesha
⁂DeerRAKesha

#DeerGhoulSchool Due to the sudden increase in mass of several students, we're ordering the dorms evacuated for the sake of structural integrity. You should still be able to fit down the staircases, and if not, from what I've seen, most of you can climb walls.

ECHOES 50
HUMS 51

7:16 PM - 31 Oct 2019

ALL CAPS ALL HALLOWEEN
⁂BuckskinBoggart

#DeerGhoulSchool MONSTER MASH FOOTBALL GAME ON THE GREEN. CAMERON HAS VOLUNTEERED TO BE THE BALL. WILL ESTABLISH WEIGHT/HEIGHT CLASSES BASED ON ATTENDENCE

ECHOES 50
HUMS 51

7:18 PM - 31 Oct 2019

ALL CAPS ALL HALLOWEEN
⁂BuckskinBoggart

#DeerGhoulSchool UPDATE: HALF THE GREEN IS BEHIND THE WARDS. GAME IS STUNTED. WHAT THE HELL ⁂DeerCampusPD?

ECHOES 50
HUMS 51

7:20 PM - 31 Oct 2019

Deer College Police Department
⁂DeerCampusPD

Be aware of the drunken Sasquatch wandering the campus. Its vomit is potentially toxic.

ECHOES 305
HUMS 96

6:55 PM - 31 Oct 2019

Deer College Fraternities
⁂DEERFratLife

Don't come by the Theta-Omega-Theta house. Sam turned into a sasquatch looking mofo and drank everything. Keg's tapped. No point. #MonsterBrewGate2019.

ECHOES 26
HUMS 58

7:25 PM - 31 Oct 2019

WickedWitchOfTheWestEnd
⁂WitchyRenegade

Yo, look on the bright side. We can do all kinds of illegal shit and they will never be able to trace it to us. #DeerGhoulSchool

ECHOES 85
HUMS 104

7:28 PM - 31 Oct 2019

Deer College Police Department
⁂DeerCampusPD

DO NOT! ⁂WitchyRenegade please come see us after this to discuss this post.

ECHOES 10
HUMS 5

7:28 PM - 31 Oct 2019

Golden Apple BOOth
⁂GoldenAppleYouth

#NotSorry we know the majority of the student body are enjoying their new-dent bodies. The transformation will wear off the instant the sun rises.

ECHOES 5000+
HUMS 5000+

7:30 PM - 31 Oct 2019

Golden Apple BOOth
⁂GoldenAppleYouth

THIS ACCOUNT HAS BEEN SUSPENDED

ECHOES 0
HUMS 0

7:31 PM - 31 Oct 2019

DeerGeist24
⁂DeerGuy24

#DeerGhoulSchool Is anyone else bugged by the fact that we look like muppets or Scooby-Doo rejects? Nothing all that scary about it.

ECHOES 50
HUMS 51

7:41 PM - 31 Oct 2019

Go Go Going Ghost
⁂GhostedPodcast

It's scared off enough ghosts that the hunt is a bust. We're just sitting in the library, trying to pass the time, since most of us can't fit through the doors.

ECHOES 41
HUMS 59

7:45 PM - 31 Oct 2019

FantasyCeption
⁂RecursiveFantasyGameClub

Turns out that whatever ⁂GoldenAppleYouth did managed to punch through our D&D group's imaginarium spell. They just spent the last hour and a half trying to justify a reason for why all of their characters now resembled bugbears with neon fur. Honestly pretty fun! #DeerGhoulSchool

ECHOES 36
HUMS 107

7:52 PM - 31 Oct 2019

Deer College Police Department
⁂DeerCampusPD

In light of the events tonight, we are taking all threats of attempting to consume other students very seriously.

ECHOES 18
HUMS 92

8:00 PM - 31 Oct 2019

Deer College Police Department
⁂DeerCampusPD

Furthermore, we are going to attempt a ritual to accelerate sunrise sometime in the next hour, so that this spell can wear off more quickly.

ECHOES 18
HUMS 92

8:00 PM - 31 Oct 2019

The Eggpumpkin
⁂DeerEggplant

That is an EXTRAORDINARILY bad idea.

ECHOES 1
HUMS 24

8:03 - 31 Oct 2019

Deer Ghoul School Odyssey
⁂BuckStopsHere

We have been informed that ⁂DeerCampusPD has obtained permission to attempt a sunrise acceleration ritual. Should be occurring in the next fifteen minutes. Await further updates.

ECHOES 49
HUMS 51

8:10 PM - 31 Oct 2019

Deer Ghoul School Odyssey
⁂BuckStopsHere

Ritual has commenced. Everyone stay inside until it's done, and don't look at the sky.

ECHOES 25
HUMS 82

8:15 PM - 31 Oct 2019

Deer Ghoul School Odyssey
⁂BuckStopsHere

Ritual has concluded. Nothing's changed. As far as we can tell, all individuals on campus are still in their monstrous forms. ⁂DeerEggplant care to explain?

ECHOES 109
HUMS 140

8:35 PM - 31 Oct 2019

The Eggpumpkin
⁂DeerEggplant

The ritual was on a timer. Discordians don't really believe in a day-night cycle; the timer just happened to align with sunrise. We've still got another 11 and a half hours until it wears off.

ECHOES 5000+
HUMS 3999

8:39 PM - 31 Oct 2019

Deer Ghoul School Odyssey
⁂BuckStopsHere

Nothing against your religion, but why did you think this was a good idea for a prank???

ECHOES 109
HUMS 140

8:45 PM - 31 Oct 2019

The Eggpumpkin
⁂DeerEggplant

Three members of ⁂GoldenAppleYouth got expelled last year for TPing campus housing. This seemed like a less harmful alternative in terms of ecological impact and cleanup.

ECHOES 420
HUMS 69

8:46 - 31 Oct 2019

Token' Fae Kid
⁂420Fairy

#DeerGhoulSchool If any of you were using illicit substances when you transformed, be careful, because the buzz does NOT go away in a new body.

ECHOES 32
HUMS 153

9:03 - 31 Oct 2019

Token' Fae Kid
⁂420Fairy

#DeerGhoulSchool That being said can someone come and help me down off of the library I'm REALLY scared of heights and I don't know how long six legs will keep me clinging to this wall

ECHOES 32
HUMS 153

9:05 - 31 Oct 2019

Deer College Tech Support
⁂DeerComputerCenter

#DeerGhoulSchool We're offering free repairs on damage to electronics caused by your sudden transformation. Everything from game controllers to headsets to chairs, bring 'em in!

ECHOES 300
HUMS 903

9:25 - 31 Oct 2019

SpookyNameHere
⁂LazyMage

RIP in PIP ⁂DeerComputerCenter. The amount of plastic, silicon and metal I heard crunching in my hallway alone is going to insure that they're busy for a week, and I'm adding onto that pile.

ECHOES 33
HUMS 65

9:30 - 31 Oct 2019

Amaranth O'Lantern
⁂AmaranthKid

#DeerGhoulSchool So uh. My roommate just grew a second head. It's speaking Latin. What.

ECHOES 16
HUMS 44

##grey|10:05 - 31 Oct 2019#

Deer College Police Department
⁂DeerCampusPD

We have received several reports of continued transfigurative and mutative processes from students. If your body is generating additional extremities, body mass, etc. remain calm and stay in an isolated location.

ECHOES 305
HUMS 96

10:25 PM - 31 Oct 2019

Halloweentown Native
⁂NexusDude

Pretty sure I just grew a second stomach. Now I have double the GERD. Fuck you, ⁂GoldenApple Youth. #DeerGhoulSchool

ECHOES 92
HUMS 21

10:32 PM - 31 Oct 2019

Orange Feathered Fiend
⁂HeronHearted

Gods alive ⁂ProfMarkos just turned into what looks like a furry shoggoth while we were watching Alien. He has, like, ten mouths, and he's hogging all the popcorn. #DeerGhoulSchool

ECHOES 33
HUMS 59

11:05 PM - 31 Oct 2019

Hi, Brasil!
⁂HyBrasilAndProud

#DeerGhoulSchool About ten people have turned into a meatball in the union I think they're okay but I don't know SOMEONE FIX THIS

ECHOES 82
HUMS 582

11:23PM - 31 Oct 2019

WickedWitchOfTheWestEnd
⁂WitchyRenegade

#DeerGhoulSchool If anyone's wondering why the hashtag is dying down: I think that most people are losing the ability to type. There are just writhing masses of flesh and fur in the hallways. People with higher EVE levels seem to be succumbing slower. ⁂GoldenAppleYouth FIX THIS BEFORE WE TURN INTO A HIVE-MIND

ECHOES 50
HUMS 932

11:19 PM - 31 Oct 2019

Deer College Police Department
⁂DeerCampusPD

⁂GoldenAppleYouth has begun to cooperate in this case. They have provided a counterspell. All students with a functioning mouth and legs should report to the quad— we're going to need all the help we can get.

ECHOES 209
HUMS 359

11:39 - 31 Oct 2019

Not Oh-Kay
⁂KayMeKaZee

WHOEVER THE FUCK IS PLAYING KATAMARI MUSIC ON THE SPEAKERS: FUCK YOU. IT'S NOT FUNNY WHEN YOU HAVE TO RUN AWAY FROM A BALL OF FUR AND SCALES MADE OF YOUR OWN D&D PARTY.

ECHOES 19
HUMS 492

12:03 AM - 1 Nov 2019

Go Go Going Ghost
⁂GhostedPodcast

#DeerGhoulSchool PSA from #GhostedPodcast: transformations leave you more open to possession. We've got three of our crew flying around the room with poltergeists clawing their way out of their mouths.

ECHOES 41
HUMS 59

12:12 AM - 1 Nov 2019

DeerInCrisis
⁂RaindropRose

#DeerGhoulSchool I'm pretty sure the Dean just tried to eat some of the Football team. Fuck. HELP!

ECHOES 85
HUMS 130

12:35 AM - 1 Nov 2019

The Eggpumpkin
⁂DeerEggplant

We're ready. Counter-incantation to follow is phonetic, so just chant it as loud as you can: Ýpnos, ýpnos, ýpnos, méchri tin anatolí #DeerGhoulSchool

ECHOES 239
HUMS 231

12:45 AM - 1 Nov 2019

SKELETON QUEEN
⁂necromanster

Are you fucking kidding? They did a SLEEPING SPELL?! Does NOBODY here speak enough Greek to realize what they pulled? #DeerGhoulSchool

ECHOES 16
HUMS 94

8:15 AM - 1 Nov 2019

Deer College Police Department
⁂DeerCampusPD

All members of ⁂GoldenAppleYouth have disappeared from campus. Any students found to be harboring members of this organization will be subjected to criminal charges. Call the Deer College Police Department with any tips for a cash reward.

ECHOES 79
HUMS 82

10:00 AM - 1 Nov 2019

Deer College Police Department
⁂DeerCampusPD

Some individuals remain transfigured. A statement from ⁂GoldenAppleYouth was thrown into Police Headquarters three minutes ago, attached to an apple made of steel, and follows below:|

ECHOES 79
HUMS 82

10:20 AM - 1 Nov 2019

Deer College Police Department
⁂DeerCampusPD

Transcript: "We of the Golden Apple refuse to apologize for our actions last night. We will acknowledge that our actions inconvenienced others. Any transformations that have yet to wear off are due to an aberration in the spell matrix (which we, admittedly unwisely, borrowed from carnomancy to create) the counter-spell to which is included on the reverse of this note.
Good period of time, Golden Apple Youth"

ECHOES 790
HUMS 1032

10:22 AM - 1 Nov 2019

WickedWitchOfTheWestEnd
⁂WitchyRenegade

Anyone seen ⁂MonstrumPride? She hasn't posted since right before this went down, and I'm getting a little worried. #DeerGhoulSchool

ECHOES 13
HUMS 29

10:35 AM - 1 Nov 2019

Teratophiles Non-Anonymous
⁂MonstrumPride

#DeerGhoulSchool Actually fuck me running I picked a bad time to go home. If there was ever a convincing argument for living in on-campus housing…

ECHOES 2
HUMS 21

12:09 PM - 1 Nov 2019

Deer College Police Department
⁂DeerCampusPD

We have received reports of the spell cast on Halloween re-activating upon contact with golden apples that have appeared in various places across campus. If an apple is sighted, call the Emergency Number immediately. Do not attempt to make contact with the apples.

ECHOES 79
HUMS 82

10:00 AM - 5 Nov 2019

Golden Apple Youth
⁂GoldenAppleYouth

:^) 🍏

ECHOES 79
HUMS 82

10:15 AM - 5 Nov 2019

Hub


Notes from Dr. Bernstein's personal audio journal:

10.27.2016: SCP-082 made an unusual request this afternoon. Instead of asking for clothes like it usually does, it asked for a set of books. Specifically, it asked for books of poetry, as well as an issue of Oxford Dictionary and Thesaurus. SCP-082 has also asked for a stack of paper, along with a quill. All requests have been approved, and the materials should arrive by tomorrow morning. Since its request, SCP-082 has refused all food and water, and sits quietly in its chamber. Quite peculiar behavior for a skip so amiable…Well, as amiable as an 8 foot cannibal can be.

10.28.2016: Ever since SCP-082 has gotten those books, it's been reading and writing nonstop. I've been surveying it for five hours and it hasn't taken a single break. It has used up three full stacks of paper already, most of which is crumpled on the floor. What the hell is it up to?

10.31.2016: I have never seen 082 this happy before. When I came into my shift this morning, it was still writing. It's been listening to more upbeat music and I saw it dancing to some of the tunes. If someone told me that I would spend my day watching a 700 pound cannibal dance like a ballerina, while writing poetry, and humming to Chopin, I'd laugh in their face.

11.3.2016: Still writing. It's still writing. Over the past few days, it's gone through ten stacks of paper. Well, I guess this is better than eating off the heads of the D-class.
082 spoke to me today. It said that it wished to read me a piece of poetry that it wrote. Oddly, it seemed quite genuine with its emotion. I told it that it could read it to me tomorrow, as it was 11 at night, and I needed to go to bed. 082 seemed alright with it, and I headed home. What the hell did I get myself into?

Audio Log 082-A

Audio Log 082-A:

Foreword: The following is an interview of SCP-082 by Dr. Bernstein, head of SCP-082's containment.

[BEGIN LOG (11.4.2016)]
Dr. Bernstein: What exactly did you want to show us, 082?Dr. Bernstein: *sigh* Alright then. Go ahead, 082.Dr. Bernstein: Any time, 082.Dr. Bernstein: I'm sure it's fine 082. Go on and read it.In the dank, deep depths of the dark alleyway,
Where no man can see the light of day,
There stood a boy wearing tattered attire,
And, in the corner, a small campfire.
With rags as a sleeping mat, and a box for a house,
And laying there, quiet as a mouse,
The boy knew not to make any sound,
For he knew what would happen if he were to be found.
While sleeping in his cot, the boy slept well,
And felt, as a whole, rather swell.
The boy woke the next morning, hearing a shout,
And from his cot, he began to sprout.
Looking to the light, he saw a figure,
Though its full shape, he could not configure.
Two more entered sight, all were a blur.
Should the boy run? He was unsure.
The figures came charging at a rapid motion,
Nothing could be heard over the commotion.
They grabbed the boys limbs, and pulled him madly,
The boy had to flee, but he could not, sadly.
Trapped by the figures, he was unable to walk,
With a cloth over his mouth, he was unable to talk.
With a thump on the head, his world became dark,
And along with the men, they disembarked.
With a groggy grunt, the boy awoke with tears,
He was locked in a cage, the worst of his fears.
Draped in red, he could not see,
With bars of steel, he could not flee.
There was a rustle, then a light so bright,
The boy had almost lost his sight.
Then, a man, with a twinkle in his eye
Grabbed a cane and top hat, then began to outcry:
"Ladies and gentlemen, children of any age!
Allow me to show you what is in this cage.
Around the world, I've travelled, sea to sea,
And I have brought a gift for thee to see.
Be warned, you may run crying in fear,
And this gift may also cause you to tear.
But fret not, my dears, for it will cause no harm
For if he does, I'll cut off his arm!"
"This great, hefty beast has arms so strong,
That he could cut down trees all year long.
Yes, it's true, this beast has some muscle,
He could certainly proclaim victory in any tussle.
But folks, if you will have a look at this creature!
We must not neglect his most prominent feature.
With jaws of steel, and teeth so bright,
This creature's smile could light up the night!"
The man turned to the boy, scowl on his face,
He whispered, "Come on, beast, pick up the pace!
Your audience is waiting, give em' a show!"
The man took the cane, then delivered a blow.
The boy shook with fear, not knowing what to do,
The audience before him began to boo.
With one last breath that reeked of bile,
The boy stood tall, and then, he smiled.
Cheers, cheers! Cheers all around!
Not a single frown was able to be found.
The man stepped forward, and said, "How about that?"
The crowd before him threw coins in his hat.
The man was rich, all thanks to the boy.
"Perhaps," the man thought, "there is more use for this toy"
Then the man reached into a pocket in his back,
He pulled out a whip, and let out a crack.
Blood cre—…blood…uh…
Dr. Bernstein: Are you alright, 082?Blood crept down the boy's back, as thick as molasses.
Brought to his knees, right before the masses.
The boy let out a roar, all could hear.
The crowd shrieked, then ran in fear.
The man chuckled, and looked at the boy,
Then said, "Oh come now, don't be so coy.
From here on out, I'll be your guide.
And, together, we shall travel far and wide!"
Days passed like months, and months like years.
Each day he was alive, he bathed in tears.
Was this his place, his final destination?
Is this life his only true application?
Whatever questions he asked, no one answered the boy.
For what was he if he not a toy?
It took many years, and much contemplation,
But at last, the boy received an explanation.
In the crypts of his mind, there came a voice.
This voice allowed the poor boy a choice.
Shall he remain in his cage, filled with dejection?
Or shall he get revenge with divine retaliation?
The boy stared at his thousands of scars,
Then brought his attention to the light of the stars.
In order to escape, the boy needed a plan,
But most of all, he must become a man.
It was the last day of the tour, the final show
What would happen? The boy did not know.
The man in the hat came out from the back.
He took out his whip, then gave another crack.
Still locked in his cage, the boy could not fight.
All he could do was shake with fright.
The man just chuckled, not giving a care.
He grabbed his cane, and gave one last declare:
"Now folks, hear me, as I tell you my feat!
I stand here, offering you all a treat.
After many years of teaching and rehabilitation,
I present this beast to the entire nation!
For he is no longer a beast, no longer so cruel,
And with my teachings, he is now my mule.
Don't believe me, you say? Need I show you?"
The man then unlocked the cage, and out the door flew.
Slowly, the boy inched from his crib,
To encourage him, the man jabbed him in the rib.
Picking up the pace, the boy made it out,
The audience before him let out a shout.
"Beast!" they called him. "Abomination!" they cried,
The boy could not smile, no matter how much he tried.
The man beside him, with eyes full of rage,
Shouted at the boy, while hitting the cage.
"Come on, my boy! What are you doing?
Can you not see that the audience is booing?
After all these years, and all of this time,
Now is when you decide to begrime?
Show them your power, show them your might!
For I know that you're human, just ever so slight.
Show them how a beast like you does no harm.
For if you don't, I will saw off your arm!"
The boy stood still, unable to move.
He could not find his internal groove.
The crypts of his mind internally froze,
Then suddenly, in front of him, a shadow arose.
The shadow engulfed the boy, entrapped his soul,
Then slowly and quietly, it began to cajole.
Finally, the boy knew what must be done,
And chuckled to himself, "Let's have some fun."
The boy grabbed his captor, and held him tight.
He stared into his eyes, and saw the fright.
As the boy lifted the man, the man screamed in fear.
From his left eye, the boy saw him tear.
The boy did not care, he had no remorse,
For he knew that this man was truly so coarse.
The boy opened his jaws, and placed the man inside.
And though it was muffled, the man still cried.
He squirmed in his mouth, as the boy began to munch,
Then he grew limp with one final CRUNCH.
(SCP-082 is silent for a minute, and then continues)
Blood gushed in the boy's mouth, it was quite a sight.
Still, unrelenting, the boy held on tight.
For he was no longer a boy, much more vicious and malicious.
As he devoured the man's flesh, he whispered, "How delicious."
Still wanting more, he turned to the crowd,
Who had already started running and screaming aloud.
The beast chased after, grabbing a few.
He ripped off their arms, then began to chew.
After those few, he grabbed some more.
He ripped out their entrails, which leaked on the floor.
After those meals, he ran to the street.
He feasted on those with livers so sweet.
In the corner of his eye, he saw a young man,
With a pair of ripped trousers, and a gun in his hand.
Though he tried to take on the beast,
It was upon his corpse that the beast would feast.
But before the beast could go any more,
He took a look down, and stared at the gore,
For this boy was like him, alone and afraid,
With no one else who would give him aid.
The beast was now alone, blood creeping in his scars,
No one could see him except for the stars.
With much shame, the beast fled the scene,
For he did not know how he could be this obscene.
He took shelter in the woods, unable to cope
With the actions he made; he was out of hope.
He washed himself in a nearby river,
Scraping off the remnants of the young man's liver.
He grabbed some leaves, and then some sticks,
Then made a small cot, in which he affixed
A small drape for a door, and some leaves that were dead,
This was the only things the beast could call his bed.
(SCP-082 begins to tear, but continues to speak)
After the night passed, he awoke in a room,
With many bright lights, and a mood so gloom.
There were people above, staring at the aberration.
The creature then knew the reality of the situation.
His life flashed again, all of the pain,
All the creature could do was exclaim.
For he was again alone, with nothing to do.
Then, a voice from above said, "Hello, 082."
(SCP-082 breaks down into a fit of crying)
Dr. Bernstein: Is that…is that all 082?(SCP-082 travels to the corner of the containment chamber and sits, facing the wall)
[END LOG]


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"A Foreign Exchange" by: DrAkimoto

~DrAkimoto's Author Page~

I'm going to be late. I exit the subway onto the busy streets of Kyoto. Taking a moment to gain my bearings, I set off towards Site-302. I'm sure a foreigner that's late on his first day is exactly what the Japanese branch is looking for. I check the time on my phone. Just what I need, another excuse not to fit in. A blur of stores, signs, and people flash by as I make my way through the crowds. My name is Mike Dalton, but there are so many Mikes you can just call me Dalt- shit, that line's not gonna get a laugh here. Already nervous about the new job — my internal monologue begins to sow seeds of doubt.
Linda's words echo in my mind, don't worry your gonna do great and in a few months I'll finish training and be there with you. She always knows the right thing to say. I start checking my pockets to make sure I have everything I need: cellphone, ID badge, keys, wallet, cellphone. I give a quick tug on the strap of my bag, satisfied with the results. Konichiwa, my name is Mike Da—, as I cross the street my thoughts are cut short by a hard tug on my jacket sleeve.
A cold empty voice is muttering behind me, "Ienikaeru, Kore o teoshi shinakereba narimasen, ienikaeru, ienikaeru, ienikaeru!"
Shrugging the boney wrinkled hand from my shoulder, I turn around, meeting the milky eyes of an old man, glaring at me.
He continues rambling and pointing. "-ienikaeru, ienikaeru."
As I try to remember what this means, my thoughts are cut short once again, this time by a car horn, cutting a sharp pain through the side of my head. I turn to see a car stopped in front of me, the bright lights compounding my newfound headache. I turn back to face the man, he's already gone. I hurry across the street to avoid further embarrassment, the car horn still blaring behind me.
Site-302 is about three blocks away when it dawns on me what the strange old man was saying. "Ienikaeru" That old shit was telling me to go home. I guess things here aren't that different from back in the States. Already knowing I was late, I reach into my pocket to check the time on my phone only to find an empty pocket. I frantically check the others before realizing: I have nothing in any of my pockets, I don't even have my bag. What the fuck? I stop walking when it dawns on me that I've been robbed. I turn back in the direction I came to go find the old man. "Kore o teoshi shinakereba narimasen"— that fucker told me he was robbing me. "I need to borrow this" my ass.
I trace my way back down the two blocks I'd already traveled, fuming the whole way. My headache has me dazed, I barely register the strange looks I am receiving. I probably look like a raving mad man. Londa always tells me I can't hide my emotions. I finally manage a cool composure as I arrive at the intersection of the encounter. As expected, the old man is nowhere to be found. I attempt to ask for help from people walking past, only to receive cold shoulders and glares of disgust. There's a small convenience store on this block; I decide to go in and ask if they've seen him.
As I enter, the shopkeeper smacks me with a broom as she shouts, "Watashitachi wa anata no shurui o koko ni tsurete ikimasen!"
I stumble out the door, her words echo clear in my mind: we don't take your kind here. Shocked by the xenophobic display and nearly blinded by my persistent headache, I decide to just go to the site and explain what happened.
Lost in thought, I manage to make a wrong turn, twice, maybe three times. I passed the Site at least twice before arriving at Site-301, an hour and a half late. Disguised as a water treatment plant, the site is almost indistinguishable from the cityscape surrounding it. This is going to be a great introduction. I press the button on the intercom.
A gravelly voice responds, "Identify yourself."
"Hello my name is Mike Dolphin- I mean Dulton, Mike Dulton." I rub my temple. I'm feeling lightheaded, my vision slightly blurry. What the fuck is wrong with me?
The gate buzzer sounds as the voice replies, "Proceed through the door."
I stumble through the gate to the door. It swings open to an all too familiar sterile white hall. I'm barely inside when I feel two hands grab me and slam me to the ground. They pin my arms behind me, with my face pressed against the floor.
I hear the voice above me in a harsh tone: "I don't know who you think you are but you're pretty fuckin' dumb for just walking in here. If you move, I will break your arm."
Rough hands pat me down as I try and think of the words to say. "I-I'm Mick Dontal, I work here, It's my fir—". My words cut short as I'm dragged down the hall, two security agents following behind.
The voice of the man dragging me sounds genuinely amused."Real funny, but don't worry we'll figure out who you are."
Now we're in the second corridor. An image of my wife's face flashes through my mind and just as quickly my searing headache takes it away. We pass several sets of doors, one on each side, before stopping at the last pair. I hear the man holding me knock on a door; the other guards haven't taken their eyes off me. Why don't they know who I am? Surely they have a file on me. Why can't I think straight? I need to explain— and then I realize why no one recognizes me.
In the door across the hall, I see my reflection. I see my wrinkled face peering back at myself: my tattered clothes, my sunken eyes, my boney fingers. What is happening? This isn't me, I'm-I'm… why can't I think of my name? My ghastly image is flung away as the door opens long enough for me to hear…
"My name is Mike Dalton, but there are so many Mikes, you can just call me Dalton," followed by laughter.
As the door closes, I catch a glimpse of the man I used to be. At least I'm fitting in. The door slams shut, and just as fast my thoughts evade me. The guard begins to drag me down the hall again. Panic sets in.
"He is me; he is me; he is me!" I struggle to break the man's grasp to no avail.
But if he is me, who am I?
The guard finally stops dragging me as he stops in front of a containment chamber door. He removes his goggles and allows the retinal scanner to identify him. The lock releases with an audible click. The guard kneels down to look me in the eyes.
In a monotone voice he says, "You should've just gone home, Mike."
The guard's milky white eyes are the last thing I see before I'm flung into the dark containment unit.

I don't know how long I've been here. I'm not sure if I care. There has to be 100 of us, maybe more, all of Site…site… oh, it doesn't matter anymore. New people come in now and then, if you can even call us people. At least, as I sit amongst these empty shells, I can take solace in the fact that I finally fit in.
A room full of nobodies, and I'm nobody too.


Item Designation: E-083
Item Description: A bookcase made out of an amalgam of wood, stone, steel, and paper from an unpublished novel by Jackson Sloth. Literature cannot be placed in the bookcase, and will phase through the object and land on the opposite side.
Date of Recovery: 12/24/2011
Location of Recovery: Sloth's Pit, Wisconsin
Current Status: In Site-87's library

October 31st, 2012
Calling it a library was being both hyperbolic and charitable.
Site-87's collection of literature consisted of various scientific and literary journals, editions of the Sloth's Pit Tourism Guide, every book ever written by Phillip Verhoten, and a few dozen non-fiction books. The majority of the shelves made the Sahara look like fertile ground— empty and covered in enough dust that the few pitiful silverworms who had attempted to make their homes here left footprints in their wake.
Still, it was a library, and 'be quiet in the library' was a universal, invioable law. Quiet is what Cassandra Pike wanted. The junior researcher had had enough of the Halloween bash upstairs, and all the noise, dancing, and bad techno music that came with it. She still couldn't believe actual professionals listened to some of that, well, screeching. Her wig from a cheap Cheetara costume was on the table, pushed to the side as she looked on her phone.
She'd been at Site-87 for less than a year, and hadn't gotten used to it. It was baffling. She was used to doom and gloom throughout the Foundation, with a counselor ready at a moment's notice, containment breaches imminent, and the world about to end in a million different ways in a given moment. Instead, Site-87 was in the middle of a bucolic Wisconsin town where the worst thing that had happened in the last decade was a deranged man believing that human meat qualified as vegan, and barely being arrested for his cannibalistic crime spree.
She considered getting up and reading the same issue of the Foundation's parazoology journal for a third time, when she noticed she wasn't alone in the library. Dr. Claude Mattings— her boss— had entered, one hand in his pocket, the other holding an apple that he was in the midst of eating. She wanted to mention that eating in the library wasn't allowed, but from the dour look he gave her from behind his coke-bottle glasses, he didn't seem like he would care.
He looked over at Cassandra. "Pike, right?"
"Yes, sir."
"Expected you to be at the party." Mattings himself was uncostumed. "Can't stand them, myself. Would rather be out on the town. Maybe getting some food."
"Then why aren't you?"
Mattings shrugged. "Have you seen the quality of food in this town? Only place other than a fast food restaurant that serves anything edible is the Black Garden, and that can get pricey quick."
"Hmm." Cassandra looked over the empty shelves, her eyes almost passing over E-083. Her eyes snapped back to it when she realized the very corner of the top shelf was occupied. She could clearly read in friendly white letters against a blue background, The Sloth's Pit Tourism Guide, 2012 Edition. "…what the hell?"
"What?" Mattings's gaze followed hers. If he was surprised, he hid it well. "That's… not possible. The shelf rejects all literature."
Cassandra picked up a scientific journal that had been haphazardly laid on the table, and placed it on E-083. It fell through the shelf, while the guide remained.
Claude stood and looked at her, then at the book. "…we should report this. That could be an anomalous piece of literature. Cognitohazardous, even."
As if in response, the book fell off of the front of the shelf, landing open at the feet of the researchers. Claude, ever cautious, turned his gaze away and covered his eyes. "Don't look at it!"
Cassandra, ever curious, crouched and squinted her eyes, reading about the Bray Road Time Slip of 1962. "…well it's not killed me yet." She flipped to the next page, which talked about the Haunted "Iced-SCREAM!" Parlor that still operated on Wilson Street. "There's something in here. It's…" She frowned. "What the hell?
"Not looking until you close it." Claude spoke through gritted teeth, impatient.
Cassandra sighed and shut the book, making a note in her mind to find a non-anomalous copy. Unlike other pieces of literature, it remained there. She turned to face him, holding up a piece of black paper with golden lettering on it. "It's… a coupon for the Black Garden. Good until the end of the week. 25% off of a meal for two." She looked up at her superior. "…I mean, it bears testing."
"Let's report this after the party. Weiss should still be awake, and we can request some time to test it. Say, seven o'clock on Saturday?"
Cassandra chuckled. "You say it like that, and it almost sounds like a date."
"I suppose it does." Claude shrugged. "But this is purely for work-related purposes. Nothing more."
One night of some of the best beer, breadsticks and burgers in town led to another, and then three more. Eventually, a bed was shared, and a relationship declaration form was signed.

Item Designation: E-083
Item Description: A bookcase made out of an amalgam of wood, stone, steel, and paper from an unpublished novel by Jackson Sloth. Literature cannot be placed in the bookcase, and will phase through the object and land on the opposite side. At irregular intervals, books will appear on the shelf that retain tangability. To date, six volumes have appeared on the shelves.

July 9th, 2013
Dr. Kathrine Sinclair, her hands stiff and burned like firewood, tried to turn the page for a third time. The optimistic prognosis was that she would be able to make a fist by next June, maybe operate a computer before the end of 2015. Until then, she was on paid medical leave, and unable to do what she loved— researching the world of the esoteric, the arcane, the occultic, the magical.
The page slipped from her grasp again, and she rested her head on the table, eyes squeezed shut in frustration, tears at the corners of them. It was a miracle her hands weren't necrotic yet. Sometimes, if she concentrated, she could operate a pair of chopsticks. The nerve damage was incredible.
She tried flexing her fingers, only to be met with a jolt of pain. With that jolt came a burst of scarlet energy that sent the book flying across the room, into E-083. It flew through the shelf in silence and hit the back wall with a thump, and then the floor with an equally disruptive thud.
"Fucking hell!" Sinclair put her head on the table, shaking, her throat sore from the tears she was holding back.
"…Katherine?"
A familiar voice stood over her. Lifting the red hair from her face, Sinclair composed herself and looked up to see the portly form of her partner, Montgomery Reynolds, standing over her with a brown bag branded with a new burger place that had opened up in the city somewhere. "I… figured I'd find you here. Got you something to eat."
"Put it down." Katherine rubbed her eyes with the back of her sleeve.. "Not supposed to have food in here, you know."
"I'll clean up." Reynolds sat down and produced a box of chicken tenders, the contents still steaming. "I… assumed that these would be easier for you to eat than a burger."
"Thanks." Hands shaking, Katherine reached into the box. She flexed a pair of fingers, and managed to get them around a smaller piece of meat, which she then brought to her mouth with a satisfying crunch. "…this is good."
"Black Garden might have some competition, finally." Montgomery nodded, trying to ignore the tears in her eyes. "How's therapy?"
"You know damn well how that's going." Sinclair bent her wrist, afraid that it would creak if she rotated it the wrong way. "I'm scared, Monty. I… I don't know who I am without magic."
"An intelligent researcher who Sigma-3 is constantly trying to snipe from this site?"
Sinclair rolled her eyes, almost drying them in the process. "Please. They tried twice. I said no because I…" She turned away, not wanting to look her partner in the face as she said her next sentence. "I like it here." The first bit tender polished off, she bit into a second one. "Seriously, this is good."
"I have some dipping sauce in here. Barbecue or Honey Mustard?" Reynolds reached into the bag.
"Honey Mustard." Sinclair's eyes wandered towards E-083. "That's odd."
"What?" Reynolds followed her gaze. Seven books sat on the shelf, and the newest one looked precarious and bloated.
"There were only six when I came in here." She squinted, trying to read the title, but the text on the spine proved too small.
"I'll pull it off the shelf and we can document it." Reynolds stood and crossed to the shelf, pulling the new book off and using a clipboard that had been affixed to the side of the shelf to note its title, date of manifestation, and circumstances of its appearance.
He brought it over to the table placing it in front of Sinclair. It was a thick volume, with its cover depicting children shuffling a deck of cards, juggling individual jokers, and even managing to make the cards look like they were levitating. The title was 1001 Amazing Card Tricks, and it advertised that it was for Ages 5 and Up, and had been written by— "Fuck you." Sinclair frowned.
"Liang-Shun Lim?" Reynolds read the author. "Isn't he that illusionist that blows smoke from his mouth when he performs card tricks?"
"Saw his act last December— he was performing at a venue in Chicago near where I was staying for…"
"Fursonal reasons?" Reynolds teased.
"Shut up," Sinclair laughed. "God, I never should have told you I was a furry. But yeah, I saw him, and it made me wonder if he had the gift."
Reynolds opened the book. It was the thickest volume on the shelf by far, but only took up about 300 pages of material. Half of the book was occupied by a hollow, plastic compartment. Within it sat a fresh deck of playing cards, still in shrinkwrap, marked with the image of an Eastern dragon embossed on the box. "…curious." Reynolds removed the deck and placed it on the table.
Katherine leafed to one of the first pages of the book. 'Basic Shuffling Techniques'. "Hmm."
"What?"
"Dr. Oleander said that a good way for me to regain dexterity would be trying to fidget with something. Exercise my muscles, get my fingers to flex." She looked at the deck. "It's been a while since I've tried just mundane card tricks. Mind unwrapping that for me?"
Reynolds chewed the inside of his cheek, digging his fingernails into the wrap and peeling it off, before opening the box and upending the cards onto it, showing the smiling face of the red joker leering up at the pair of them. "Are you sure about this?"
"I need some way to pass the time." Sinclair looked at the book. "Turn the pages for me? I'll tell you when I'm done with them."
"Of course."
Sinclair picked up the deck, card by card, and started throwing them into five distinct piles. Pile shuffling, this was called. She remembered this from back when her cousin had tried to teach her to play some inane card game.
By the time she had started the second chapter, she could crook her index finger.

Item Designation: E-083
Item Description: A bookcase made out of an amalgam of wood, stone, steel, and paper from an unpublished novel by Jackson Sloth. Literature cannot be placed in the bookcase, and will phase through the object and land on the opposite side. At irregular intervals, books will appear on the shelf that retain tangability. To date, twenty volumes have appeared on the shelves.
Date of Recovery: 12/24/2011
Location of Recovery: Sloth's Pit, Wisconsin
Current Status: On loan to the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia for demonstrative purposes. Has retained its anomalous properties despite being removed from the Nexus.

August 2015
"I'm sorry, but…" Special Agent Raymond Keys looked at his new trainee like she had her head on fire. "You said you want to be assigned to Unusual Incidents?"
Harley Sterling, newly minted student at Quantico, scratched her scalp. She was looking at her superior like he had asked her if gravity was real. "Is that strange?"
"Counting you? I've had two people request to be put in UIU. That other agent—"
"Is Special Agent Quinn MacAllister, Cincinnati Division." Harely Sterling held up her right hand, displaying her wedding band— plain gold, with an inscription on it in Irish, from Quinn's side of the family. "My wife. She recommended I talk to you about this."
"Son of a bitch." Keys laughed, the look of disbelief disappearing and being replaced with one of triumph. "Sorry, just. Unexpected. MacAllister's a good agent. I take it you signed the marital gag order?"
"If I didn't, I couldn't talk to you about this. Still don't entirely get what a 'memetic geas' is." She counted off on her fingers. "The Foundation, Grassroots, Chicago Spirit, GOC, MC&D. It's… pretty heavy." Harley sucked in air through her teeth. "Kind of overwhelming, to be honest. I'm not sure I understand half of it." She lifted her right sleeve, revealing a distinct series of needle scars trailing up it.
"Right." Keys winced. "Read the report about that."
"I don't remember much. One second I was in Iowa, with Quinn, the next I was strapped to a table getting needles pulled out of me by her partner while she was resuscitating me." Harley played with her hair. "Though part of me thinks she was looking for an excuse to give me a proper kiss."
"And the amnestics you were administered?"
"Wiped out a good few weeks. I remember hitting a 'cryokinetic entity' over the skull, but after that, nothing." She looked down. "I… want to do this because I feel like I don't know her. I love her, but I need to figure out who she is."
"Well, Carts, cans, all that shit, they can be dangerous, but there are some more benign things— some of them are even kind of cool." Keys stood and made his way to the ugliest bookcase Harley had ever seen. He took a trashy James Patterson off of his desk and placed it on the first vacant spot on the shelf shelf, grimacing as it fell through all of the lower ones and hit the floor with a thud, before sliding out and impacting the leg of his desk as the universe remembered two things could not take up the same space. "This is a demonstrative tool, to introduce people to the weird shit we do. Books that appear on the shelf are just fine. But try to place anything on it, and it just goes through. Only twenty books—"
"I count twenty-one." Harley leaned in to look at the shelf.
Keys turned to face the shelf, and sighed. His thunder had been stolen by a fugly piece of furniture. "It sometimes does that." He picked up the new book, ready to record it, and nearly dropped it in shock. "What the fuck?"
Harley stood and looked at the book with him. She read the title twice before she comprehended it, and had to read it one more time before her jaw fell open. "The Case With No Name: My Time In The Unusual Incidents Unit by Quinn MacAllister?"
"And sometimes it makes books that are utterly impossible." Keys handed the book to Harley. "Amnestics are a bitch, but this might jog your memory. At the very least, it could fill you in on the events that occurred? Assuming it's not all bullshit."
Harley took the book. "Should I just leave it by your door?"
"Just leave it unattended in a trash can somewhere. They re-appear on the shelf after about ten minutes of being looked away from."
That night, Harley Sterling read, and was reminded that all was right in the world, and that her life was made better by Quinn's existence, and vice-versa.

Item Designation: E-083
Item Description: A bookcase made out of an amalgam of wood, stone, steel, and paper from an unpublished novel by Jackson Sloth. Literature cannot be placed in the bookcase, and will phase through the object and land on the opposite side. At irregular intervals, books will appear on the shelf that retain tangability. To date, thirty-five volumes have appeared on the shelves.
Date of Recovery: 12/24/2011
Location of Recovery: Sloth's Pit, Wisconsin
Current Status: Unknown, presumably destroyed following a large wreck while en route back to Site-87

September 2016
The library felt like a tundra without the bookcase.
It had been absent for the better part of a year. The library had grown around it; the shelves were full of actual literature, an entire forest's worth of paper, from scientific literature to sci-fi. A section for DVDs had opened up, and by the door, a red kiosk had been installed to check out books, instead of having researchers steal material willy-nilly. But it all felt colder without the bookcase.
Before the place where it should have been, Cassandra Pike stood, alongside her ex. She was freezing— whether due to malfunctioning air conditioning, his icy demeanor, or the sense of absence, she didn't know.
Claude Mattings had taken off his glasses. He was rubbing them to the point that the frame was creaking and the lenses was on the verge of popping out. "What happened to us?"
"We… used to be friends, then we weren't." Cassie scooted away from him, trying to find a corner of the library where warmth existed. "I don't even remember what the argument was about."
"I don't either. We just… started yelling, in front of everyone." Claude looked at the vacancy of the bookcase. He swore he could make an outline of dust on the wall from where it used to be. "Kind of symbolic, isn't it?"
"It's Sloth's Pit. I'm surprised the symbolism isn't more on the nose." Cassie scratched the back of her head, her breath hitching in her throat. "Are you… sure you want to try again?"
"…I don't know." Claude looked down, squeezing the frames of his glasses. "It's been months since we talked without you breaking down or me sniping at you. That's not exactly the basis for a healthy relationship." He squeezed hard enough that the right lens of his glasses popped out and bounced onto the carpeted floor, landing at Cassandra's feet. "Son of a—"
"I got it." Instead of bending down to pick up the lens like Claude expected, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a familiar black glasses case. "You… left them in my quarters after the fight. Your spare pair."
Claude opened the case and found a pair of glasses with lenses as thick as the bottom of a glass soda bottle. He placed them on his face, squinting— it was an old prescription, much more powerful, and it made the entire room look bigger. It made the tear stains at the edge of Cassandra's eyes more obvious. He let out a sad laugh. "Christ. I'm blind as a fucking bat."
Wind stirred the shelves of the library. They felt the impact coming before they heard it, Cassandra tackling Claude to the floor as a massive something hit the back wall of the library with a loud, rattling thud. She'd thrown herself on to him in such a way that they had landed face-to-face, despite Cassandra being six inches shorter than him.
They quickly stood, correcting their awkward position. Then, Claude saw what had caused the rush of wind. "How in the holy—" Claude began.
The bookcase sat there, with thirty-six books on its shelf. The newest volume had a cheap sheen on its cover that made it clear it belonged alongside exciting volumes such as Chicken Soup for the Prisoner's Soul or The Secret. Still, Cassandra Pike picked it up, frowning as she read its title.
"Mending a Relationship: Ten Steps To Fall In Love Again." She chewed her lip, her snaggleteeth digging in and threatening to draw blood. "Let it never be said that this bookshelf publishes things that are irrelevant."
"Well?" Claude rolled his shoulders, taking a seat at a table. "We have to document its contents anyway."
Cassandra sat by him, and opened the book to the first page. By the end of the second chapter, they were hugging and crying.

Item Designation: E-083
Item Description: A bookcase made out of an amalgam of wood, stone, steel, and paper from an unpublished novel by Jackson Sloth. Literature cannot be placed in the bookcase, and will phase through the object and land on the opposite side. At irregular intervals, books will appear on the shelf that retain tangability. To date, forty-nine volumes have appeared on the shelves.
Date of Recovery: 12/24/2011
Location of Recovery: Sloth's Pit, Wisconsin
Current Status: In Site-87's Library.

November 2017
Site-87's library was a buzz of activity. Over the last two weeks of October, the E-083 had gone through some kind of bizarre rush of activity— over a dozen books had appeared on the shelf. Several of them were already removed and being passed around researchers in the room. Unsurprisingly, the majority of them were from the horror genre.
In one corner of the room, Cassandra Pike sat in an electric wheelchair, her leg still in a cast. Several people had written their names on it, wishing them well. Someone had managed to sneak in the pawprint of a cat onto the cast— that had made her smile. Still, it would be a miracle if she didn't limp for the rest of her life— her femur had pins in it from being shattered by a malevolent supernatural entity.
The horror novels that had appeared varied in quality. Several of them read like Stephen King, if King actually knew how to be concise and never went through his cokehead "let's write a prepubescent orgy" phase in the 1980s. The exception was the one that Pike held in her hands— it was untitled and unlabeled.
Pike's nose was scrunched up in sheer disbelief of the book's contents. It seemed to be a journal, and she recognized the handwriting— it was the late archivist Isaiah Pickman. She'd helped him organize the archives a few times during her downer episodes.
The contents were a chaotic scribble of notes about the town of Sloth's Pit and anomaly occurrence patterns therein. Pasted in were newspaper articles detailing events from a successful bake sale at a high school to a ceiling fan flying off of the ceiling of a living room and ping-ponging itself around an empty house, causing massive damage to the interior decoration, to mysterious lights in the sky. There were references to a Union of workers who were the best at what they did, dozens of quasi-fictional beings living in the woods, and desperate attempts to draw connections between all of it.
Eventually, almost in the exact middle of the book, there were three words, circled several times: "WE ARE REAL"
"The hell does that mean?" Cassandra frowned. Above it was what seemed to be an attempt at half-heartedly writing a logical proof.

The SCP Foundation protects the world from anomalous items, persons, creatures and phenomena.
Items rarely breach containment on a large scale. Large-scale breaches are easily recontained. Too easily.
Sloth's Pit is known to follow narrative patterns. These patterns are visible on a grander scale throughout the world/multiverse (see: Hy-Brasil, Boring, Three Portlands, Massachusetts)
The SCP Foundation therefore follows narrative patterns. A. S. Swann Proposal states that we may be fictional. Fiction works to our benefit. Two possibilities:
1) Hypothesized "Horror-author" figures are more benevolent than once believed
2) There is a fundamental force of the universe which works outside of the influence of the "Horror-author" figures in order to preserve humanity.
We exist when they look away. I think therefore I am, even when I am not involved in the goings-on. We write our own stories. We are human. WE ARE REAL.

Pike's eyebrows shot into her hair. She'd heard of the Andrew S. Swann proposal before. It filled her with dread every time she thought about it, that her life could be snuffed out by the typing of some words on an impossible-to-comprehend keyboard that was dictating her life. But at the same time…
She should be dead. She had a bone spur that had traveled through her heart that should have killed her. She was getting married in February, and her fiance, grieving and alone, would make for a poor story.
Christopher Hastings should be dead. Dragged miles underground by some bizarre pumpkin creature, he came out unconscious and with a leg that was almost dislocated, but largely unscathed. He had more stories to tell, still.
Blake and Ruby Williams, a pair of agents on Mobile Task Force Sigma-10, should be dead. Transported back in time by some bizarre psychic link they shared interacting with a temporal anomaly, they ended up in the clutches of a Sarkic cultist who had preserved them in amber, to be discovered when they were found by their teammates in the basement of an abandoned house almost fifty years later. It wasn't good literary form to kill one twin or the other— it had to be both, or neither. Seriously, fuck you, Rowling.
Something was wrong. Reality wasn't this benevolent.
Pike shook and took the journal to the door. She'd document it later. For now, she needed to get to the archives— but she couldn't get in on her own. She pulled out her phone, and dialed the first qualified number she saw.
"Dr. West?" Pike wheeled her way to the elevator, her electric chair whirring down the hall. "Can you meet me near Archivist Pickman's old office? There's… something I think may be important."

Item Designation: E-083
Item Description: A bookcase made out of an amalgam of wood, stone, steel, and paper from an unpublished novel by Jackson Sloth. Literature cannot be placed in the bookcase, and will phase through the object and land on the opposite side. At irregular intervals, books will appear on the shelf that retain tangability. To date, ninety-nine volumes have appeared on the shelves.
Date of Recovery: 12/24/2011
Location of Recovery: Sloth's Pit, Wisconsin
Current Status: In Site-87's Library.

October 2019
In the Site-87's library, a group of researchers waited with baited breath. Katherine Sinclair paced back and forth, nervously fidgeting with a deck of cards. Dr. West was taking photographs, documenting the inevitable event. There were ninety-nine books on the shelf, and for the last two Octobers, there had been an influx of new reading material appearing on the apparatus. This had been no different, but it had ground to a halt of late.
Claude Mattings sat by Cassandra Pike, a hand on her knee. "West, for the love of god!" Claude barked. "Books don't manifest if it's observed, put the camera away!"
West apologized and pointedly looked away from the shelf. He was anxious to see what would next appear.
In her chair, Cassandra Pike shook, afraid to look at it. Bile rose in her throat.
"You all right?" Claude looked her over. "You look pale."
"I'm nervous. Only one space left— what happens if the shelf gets full?" She looked over her shoulder. Still one space left. "We're quasi-fictional, and pretty much every book that's appeared on the shelf is relevant to us in some way. When the last one fills up…"
"It's not always relevant." Sinclair stood by Pike, riffling her cards with a satisfying sound, like a zipper smoothly joining itself. "Remember that one weird period where it was putting out Elizabethan tragedies and Greek history plays." Sinclair glanced back at the shelves. "I swear to god it put out a couple of westerns too."
Cassandra nodded. "Then there was the time it put out World War II stories. I kind of wish there were more of those— interesting perspectives." Cassandra shook her head. "Point stands. I'm scared. What if—" She looked back at the shelf, as if willing the 100th story to not appear. "What if we vanish when it gets full? We're… not real, not completely. What if we… what if we just stop? The town goes poof, and us with it?"
Claude shook his head, and did the most passionate thing he had done in months: turn her head gently to kiss her on the lips. "We're together. If the world goes poof, we'll have done it hand-in-hand."
She joined hands with him in a vice grip as she turned back to the shelf. It was full. A single, red book laid in the bottom corner of it.
"Well?" Dr. Sinclair motioned at Cassandra. "You were the first to find the book on it, you should open the last one."
Trembling, Cassandra Pike stood. She crossed to the shelf and knelt, removing the last volume from the shelf. It was entitled How to Build a Bookcase.
"…bit of an anti-climax, that." Claude scratched his head. "Odd."
Cassandra cracked open the pages of the book. Sensing something was wrong, she threw it onto the floor and scampered back to the safety of the researchers.
"Cassie!" Claude caught his wife, shielding her from the book. There were many confusing noises and scents— hammers and saws against wood, the odd curse at the impact of metal against a thumbnail, the scent of sawdust and finisher and paint. Then, it was over. "Are… are you all right?" He was holding her hard enough that she had trouble breathing.
"I-I think so." She looked past her husband's shoulder. It took her three tries to comprehend what was standing before her, and even then, she could only manage: "What the fuck?"
All those assembled looked at where the 100th book had been thrown. In its place, a bookcase sat. Unlike the bizarre amalgamation that was the original bookshelf, this one gleamed under the soft light, composed of some form of ornate hardwood. One side was carved with a scene depicting a massive tower on top of a wooded hill, shining a beacon onto the dark forest and revealing a face within. The other side showed a group of over a dozen hands uniting, clutching a staff with an opened book at the top. Sinclair swore that she could make out one hand, badly burned, clutching the staff towards the middle.
At the top, the ornamentation continued, interrupted by a bronze plaque:

This shelf was made in honor of the hundred tales that had appeared before it, in the hope that more will be written.
Thank you to all who have read and experienced them.

The second shelf already had a new book on it.
"What do we do?" Sinclair asked.
"It's a book." Cassandra Pike removed it from its resting place. "You read it."

Hub


It was O5-10's first day, and he was nervous.
Not that any of the security staff around him knew. To them he was one of the mysterious and semi-mythical members of the Overseer's Council, a shadowy group that controlled an already plenty shady organization. The rumors swirling around made them sound like immortal sociopaths that had been kicking around since the Stone Age.
So when the previous Ten approached him to succeed her, he almost thought it was a prank. A leader of the most powerful organization on the planet, asking him to replace her so she could spend more time with her granddaughter? But for some stupid reason, he accepted.
Though right now, he did wonder what would have happened if he had refused. Was that even an option? Would he have been allowed to walk away intact?
The elevator doors opened, revealing a short hallway ending at a pair of doors, guarded by two more members of the Red Right Hand.
"Just through there, sir." Captain Suarez said. "We'll be waiting for you upstairs, sir."
"You're not coming with me?" he asked.
"We're your personal security staff, sir, we can't enter," Suarez explained. "Meeting rooms are guarded by a careful selection of staff who have no reason to value one Overseer over another, sir. Don't worry, you're in the best hands in the world."
Ten stepped out and began what felt like a mile long stretch to the double doors on the other side, clutching the classified papers he had been sent.
The guard at the other end of the hall nodded. "Overseer. Right through these doors, please." Weren't they going to scan him?
The other guard looked over him briefly, before returning her gaze to her colleague and giving the most subtle of nods.
Oh. Ten went through the doors as fast as he could.

The meeting hall of the famed Overseers was surprisingly tame. All there was in the medium sized room was a round wooden table, with eleven seats filled. He expected something fancier, but the Foundation had never been one for ostentatious decoration, now that he thought about it. The lengths it took to request a potted plant…
It looked like all the other Overseers had already arrived, chatting among themselves or just flipping through documents. Most likely by design, if they were going to be welcoming a new member.
A Middle Eastern woman got up to greet him. "Ten, I assume. Does the black moon howl?"
The code word. Every Overseer had their own code word, something to confirm that they were who they said they were. If he misspoke, his predecessor had told him, he'd be shot immediately as a spy.
"With a mourning song." His voice cracked a little on the ending, and he noticed the woman's eyebrows slightly rise and her hand dip to her belt for a moment.
"Well, it's nice to meet you," she said, raising the hand that was just about to end him. "I'm Eve. Yes, that Eve, garden of Eden and everything. It's a bit of a long story."
Ten lost the ability to talk, instead opening his mouth and turning into a really stupid-looking fish. Of all the things he had expected, he hadn't been expecting someone from the Bible.
"These are the other Overseers," she said, gesturing at the table of polite smiles. "If you ask nicely, they might tell you their names. Going around the table, that's Two, Four, Five, and so on, and on my other side is Death. Yes, that death, Grim Reaper, Thanatos, whatever you'd like to call him. We all got together back in the day and trapped him. Long story, but you're now immortal. Enjoy."
Death looked like a middle aged business man in a black suit, who was currently flipping through a document. He looked up at O5-10, politely nodding before returning to his business.
"I-uh, okay." Any second now, his head was going to explode. They had Death locked up? As in the Death? Maybe some of the rumors weren't so far-reaching as they thought.
Ten looked around the table. "Wait, I thought there were thirteen of us?
"Three's an artificial intelligence," Two said, pointing to the terminal on her right. It flickered to life, showing an image of a teenager waving, before it went blank again. "Runs security here at the site."
Eve sat down between Two and Death, gesturing for him to sit between Nine and Eleven. "Usually we'd give you some time to catch up, learn everything you need to learn, but we have a bit of a situation on our hands that requires a consensus vote. Four?"
A short man with a mustache stood up, distributing folders to everyone. "So, we've got the Bull of Heaven running around in Syria right now. Assets are on the ground right now sweeping things up, but it won't be long before someone gets footage of it. We need to deal with it, fast."
Ten opened up his folder, which contained images of a gargantuan golden bull barreling through a concrete building like it was a sandcastle. Rubble was flying around it like a tornado had sprung up.
"All our weapons are pretty much useless," Four continued. "We haven't been able to so much as scratch it. I'm estimating a Broken Masquerade scenario within forty-six hours."
Everyone else looked rather bored at the thought of a public Foundation, rather than terrified as Ten was. But he kept a brave face and focused his attention on Four.
"Interesting," Eve said, looking through the photos. "Bigger than I remember. What's your plan then? I imagine you have a solution in mind."
"Actually, I thought we could bring in Gock on this," he said, which was met with a series of exasperated groans and eye rolling.
"You sure about this?" Seven asked. "It was a bit of a clean up last time. You know how he gets."
"Better than a mythical creature in the middle of a war zone."
"Uh, I'm sorry," Ten said, raising his hand like he was back in middle school again. "Who exactly are we talking about?"
"Oh, didn't the old Ten fill you in?" Four asked. "Gabriel Oscar Cartwright. Or Gock, as I call him."
He said it so matter of factually, Ten almost accepted it without any questions. "Uh… I'm sorry? Do you mean the GOC, the Global Occult Coalition?"
"Nah, it's just him," the woman to the right of him said. "The whole GOC organization is a myth, it's made up. Just Gabe."
"I'm sorry, the Global Occult Coalition of the UN is just one man?" Ten asked incredulously. This had to be a joke. They couldn't be serious, could they?
"Pretty much. Albeit one man with a metric fuckton of guns," Five said. "Seriously, I'm pretty sure its a fetish at this point. No one needs that many."
"Whenever we get something we can't wipe out by ourselves, we call up Gabe and he nukes it off the planet," Eve explained. "Egypt, the Ohio Incident, the wolf with the big teeth up in the Arctic. He's saved the planet more than a few times. All we need to do is the cover up."
"But… how? I've spoken with Coalition agents, hell I led a joint strike team with one before!" Ten exclaimed.
"Red Right Hand agents. Sure we'll fire a few bullets, but Gabe always kills the anomaly. It's really the only thing he asks for."
"See, told you." Five muttered. "It's a gun fetish. Dude gets off on killing them."
"I don't care if he gets off to pictures of my mother," Four somehow managed to say without the slightest hint of a joke on his face. "He does his job perfectly, that's all I care about. I can call him and have the bull wiped out as soon as possible. All in favour?"
Every hand around the table went up immediately except for Ten's, who was still processing that the Foundation's biggest paranormal rival was actually just a man with a unhealthy love of guns.
Maybe it was peer pressure, maybe it was stupidity, but he raised his hand not soon after.
"Great." Four flipped open a phone and quickly dialed a number. "Hey Gabe, its- uh huh. Yeah, the bull in Syria. Wipe it out or whatever, don't really care. I-what, this weekend? Hold on, let me ask everyone."
Four covered the phone with a hand, looking at the others. "Everyone free for a barbecue Saturday?"
Again, everyone agreed, even Death. Did he even have to eat?
"Yeah, that works. See you then. Remember, the bull. Gotcha. Yeah, I'll try and make it. Ice? Sure, I'll grab a few bags. Gotcha."
Four flipped it shut. "That's a wrap. Bull should be dead in a few hours. Eight, do you think you could remember to pick up some propane for the grill a few hours before on Saturday?"
"Sure," Eight nodded. "So that was it for today, right? Unless anyone else had something to share…"
Everyone turned to look at Ten, who had been filling up with so many questions that he felt like he was going to burst.
"Something on your mind, Ten?" Eve asked.
"So. The entire Global Occult Coalition, including their strike teams, High Command, member organizations, whatever, is just one guy with a gun."
"One guy with a lot of guns and a gun fetish," Five corrected. "If he wasn't so into destroying anomalies, he probably would be our biggest threat."
"Is he… is he anomalous, somehow?"
"Nope," Six said. "Just a guy who really likes guns and really anything that explodes. I'm about ninety-eight percent sure that his dad was an AK-47 and his mother was a hellfire missile, but he's very much non-anomalous."
Ten didn't know what to say to that.
Eve drank her coffee. "I'm sensing you still have some questions."
"Are there any other groups of interest that have been… well, faked?"
Six shrugged. "Depends on your definition, but kind of."
"The Church of the Broken God?"
"Steampunk fans, mostly," Six said. "There was a cosplay event in California that got out of hand a couple years back, but we handled it."
"Alexyva University?"
"Some pretentious foreign university that only speaks Latin. They're assholes, but ordinary."
"Marshall, Carter and Dark?"
"A bunch of very rich liars. They've never actually sold a single anomalous artifact, believe it or not. We fake a few files to keep their idiot buyers away from the actual stuff."
"Okay, then Dado? Is he also fake?"
"It's pronounced 'dado,' but no, he's real," Eve chimed in. "Haven't faked a single word. Still not sure what's up with him, to be honest."
"What about the Fifth Church?" Ten asked.
"Five guys who share a pet starfish."
"That Nobody fellow?"
"Three kids in a trench coat, believe it or not."
"The Sarkic cults?"
"Just a bunch of people who are really into vore. Completely disgusting, but definitely non-anomalous."
"Well what about Doctor Wondertainment?"
"Oh, that's just Santa Claus."
Ten sat in his chair, utterly stunned. He had spent twenty years of his life at this agency, protecting the world against countless anomalies and the groups that would use them for their own ends. And now to just hear that they were all fake-
Wait a minute, why were they all smiling again?
The entire room burst out into laughter as they couldn't hold it in anymore.
"Oh my god, I can't believe you fell for that!" Five wheezed as he gasped for breath in between fits of laughter. "The look on your face!"
Ten relaxed, letting the tension that had been building up fall off his shoulders. So it was just a prank, something they did on the incoming O5s. He had to admit, it was a little bit funny, them winding him up to believe all the tall tales.
"Wow. Can't believe I actually fell for that."
Eleven slapped him on the back. "Don't worry about, we were all in your shoes once. Just a little bit of hazing to welcome a new face. Glad you're here."
"Thanks, it's good to be here."
"It never gets old," chuckled Eve. "Two hundred or so years, every Overseer I've known has fallen for that one."
"Well I-"
"I mean come on, Santa Claus? That's just ridiculous."
The smile quickly slipped off of Ten's face. "Wait, what?"


cthulahoop 05/05/15 (Tue) 17:19:19 #5572301

Box-art for Escape From Terminus.

Before Dungeons & Dragons — before Empire of the Petal Throne — before Chainmail, White Bear and Red Moon, or even Siege of Bodenburg — there was Escape From Terminus.
Considered by some to be the father of modern table-top role-playing, Escape From Terminus was first distributed by Albion Games in 1965. One year later, the company folded — of the seven hundred initial prints, less than fifty were sold.
But in the years leading up to the gaming explosion of the 70s, Escape From Terminus became an underground hit. Loose-leaf binders filled with dog-eared photocopies of its three-hundred and forty-three page rule-book made the rounds at VCON (a Canadian fantasy and sci-fi gaming convention) in 1973 — along with perforated cardboard sheets that could be folded into the special dice needed to play.
Despite the rabid interest, most of these binders were incomplete. Entire chapters were missing. People desperate to complete the game filled these gaps with home-brew rules; others would mistake these pages for originals and insert copies into their own rule-books. Over time, this made it all-but-impossible to tell which pages were authentic and which were written by over-zealous players.
Interest in Escape From Terminus waned in the late 70s and early 80s. Simpler and more accessible games (Dungeons & Dragons, Tunnels & Trolls, Rolemaster) rose in popularity. Nevertheless, it retained a small and active audience who sought to outwit the cruel and relentless Minotaur.

One of Escape From Terminus's original '7-sided dice'.

The game is set in a sprawling complex of 'hexagon-shaped chambers' connected by doors on all six sides. Players navigate this infinite maze of hexes one move at a time, adding each room to their map as they go. The content of a hex is determined by rolling dice and consulting reference tables. A room can contain traps, items, messages, rations — even the bodies of previous players. With no combat mechanics, the game focuses on exploration and survival. But what made Escape From Terminus unique was how you played it: Alone, with no companions and no 'Dungeon-Master'.
Once you died (either from a trap, starvation, or the Minotaur), the hex you perished in was marked. The map was then passed on to another player, who started again. When entering a room that had been explored previously by someone else, new reference tables simulated the passage of time and the actions of the Minotaur. You could also leave behind items for the next player, or provide hints written in chalk (these messages were included with the map in sealed envelopes marked by the hex's number).
After years of playing, each map developed a life of its own. Players recognized landmarks and paid their respects in hexes where previous runs met their untimely end. Others created elaborate strategies tailored to the layout of their map. Rooms could contain dozens of messages that had accumulated over decades of play. Even the Minotaur's behavior felt unique to each game — as if its personality was dictated by the map in which it lived.
Eventually, the sheer size of the map required multiple sheets with meticulous notes regarding how each part fit together. In some cases, it grew so large that it could no longer be shipped from one player to the next. The longest ongoing session of Escape From Terminus started in 1974 between a group of friends in Minnesota; it was then passed on to their friends, who passed it on to theirs. In 1985, the map grew so large that it had to be moved into the basement of a local game shop. Before the last player vanished in 2008, the map allegedly included well over two hundred thousand hexes and six hundred messages — only a handful of which were ever even read.

The Minotaur (source unknown; posted in IRC chat on 10/27/2011).

In 2005, a web-forum ("Terminus Velocity") was established as a hub for Escape From Terminus players eager to beat the game. Participants scanned every map and rule-book they could find. They then combed through gigabytes of hand-written data and produced the first attempts at an optimum strategy.
Everything in Escape From Terminus is resolved via a complex mechanic that uses six seven-sided dice in addition to a coin flip (producing the probability range of an inverted bell-curve). The result is checked against several hundred reference tables with different outputs. Modifiers (plus or minus) are applied to the roll according to circumstances, items, and even adjacent hexes. The game ends when someone finds the 'Escape Hex' — a hex containing the stairs out. Since each hex is randomly generated, optimizing Escape From Terminus meant maximizing the chances of spawning this hex.
But there was a problem: The Minotaur. Every time someone came close to spawning the hex, they fell prey to Escape From Terminus's unseen nemesis — either via a trap it set, a door it locked, or an object it destroyed. Maximizing the chance of an 'Escape Hex' also maximized the chance of the Minotaur's presence. Despite years of frantic attempts, most players eventually recognized that spawning an exit and not dying was virtually impossible.
Once players realized the game was effectively unwinnable, most of the community went silent. The web-forum unexpectedly dropped off-line in 2012, taking most of what we know about Escape From Terminus with it. An incomplete rule-book or box filled with pages from an abandoned campaign will occasionally show up at a yard sale somewhere — but otherwise? Escape From Terminus has become an obscure footnote in the history of table-top games.
One last thing — two days prior to going off-line, "Terminus Velocity" experienced a brief flurry of activity. A new thread managed to generate more replies in 24 hours than every previous thread combined. The post in question:

Hey guys, Randall Petrov's son here (he was part of Albion Games in the 60s).
I know he would be so honored by, and proud of, everything you've done here. You all have gone far beyond what he and Albion ever hoped, and gave new life to the Terminus story. It's so exciting to read all the different variations. I wanted to ask, though: whose idea was the Minotaur?