Jakeob Aldon stared at the card that Felix Cori had given her. Or maybe she should start calling him "The Critic." She let out a sigh and stretched out across her bed, flipping the card between her fingers. The side that had held the number she was to previously call was now blank, and the opposite side held nothing but a question.
Are We Cool Yet?
It was an interesting question, at the very least. A group that was little more than a question suggested that the answer could never be "Yes." Because then what? What if the opposition suddenly was cool with you? What if the art, and by extension the artists, became cool? To some that may not matter as it would simply mean dropping what amounted to little more than a label, but from Aldon's limited experience the aussie anartists were all about labels.
The Critic critiqued. The Director directed. The Sculptor sighed and waited for the card to do something interesting.
After several more minutes, the card finally obliged. Upon turning it to the side that used to be blank, Aldon found a new phone number to call. She pawed for her phone and when the search came up empty she sat up.
In the corner of the room she spotted Copper, Boron, Iron, and Zinc gathered around her crappy old flip phone. They didn't seem to be eating it, which was good. In fact, they appeared to be trying to use it. Iron and Copper were holding a phone book open while Boron read from it, Zinc punching in the numbers. Aldon crouched down to see Boron reading from a listing for some company that bought and sold gold items.
Aldon pinched the phone and tugged it away from Zinc, who protested by waving its little arms around. Iron hopped up onto the phone book and hopped about pitifully.
"Sorry, guys, I need this. Besides, you need money to buy gold."
Now too occupied with dialing the number, Aldon missed Boron looking to the spot on Finnegan's desk where the roommates tended to leave their wallets.
Aldon waited while the dial tone droned on. After approximately four seconds the tone changed to a low pitched hum, which Aldon assumed was a memetic screening device or something. When the tone decided her mind probably hadn't collapsed in on itself, Felix picked up.
"Allie?"
"Hey, Felix."
"Um. Hi."
"…Hi." Out of the corner of her eye, Aldon caught Zinc trying to sneak up on the unsuspecting wallet sitting on the desk. She rolled her eyes and pocketed the wallet and gave the little golem a light bop on the head with her finger. All the while, Felix remained silent. "Felix?"
"Right, sorry, just waiting for this thing to triangulate you."
"What thing?" Aldon slid over to the window and looked to the sky. "You know you could have just friggin' asked where I live."
"I was busy! And nervous. And stuff. Look, it doesn't matter. This thing is almost done, and then I'll send The Janitor over to pick you up."
"That doesn't sound like much of an artist name."
"Well, no. She— it— is more of a… well, the cleaning crew. It's a long story. But don't worry, this triangle thing just finished so she— it— will be right over."
Knock. Knock. Knock.
"Shit, that was fast." She started for the door but a thought caught her midstep. "Did you know where I live this whole time and do this just for a cool setup?"
Felix just laughed. "I'll see you in a bit."
Aldon stared at the phone as it clicked and went back to the regular dial tone. "He so did."
After pocketing the phone Aldon went to the door. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure the golems weren't in an immediate line of sight, then she unlocked the door and cracked it open. She took a small breath and looked out.
Something looked back. Behind the lens of a gas mask, two tunnels bored into a skull that might not have actually been there. The resulting abyss drew Aldon in like a moth to a flame, despite the obvious dissimilarity due to an abyss being both dark and cold and a flame being… well, not those things. The being nodded in greeting but kept its gloved hands at its side.
A voice like a dying loudspeaker emanated from somewhere in its general vicinity. "Sculptor. I am called The Janitor."
"Sup," Aldon said with a smile. "Come in, before somebody notices you. You're… what, a demiurge? Full Urge? You're definitely something."
The Janitor cocked its head as it entered. "You are more relaxed than most I meet."
Aldon shut the door behind it. "I mean, don't get me wrong— you're still unnerving as fuck. Just, y'know, that doesn't mean I can't be polite. Besides, you're not the first god I've met."
"I am not a god."
Aldon shrugged. "Eh, whatever you are. So I'm guessing you have some teleporting thingamajig to get me to Felix, yeah?"
The Janitor slowly began to unbutton its trenchcoat. "I have a Way."
"Cool, cool. Well, uh, open 'er up and let's get going."
"Close your eyes. Cover your ears. I will guide you with my hand on one shoulder. When I release, you may open your eyes and ears."
Aldon shut her eyes but had to make the remark, "This is gonna be some traumatic jaunt through your personal Way, isn't it."
Before she covered her ears she heard the rush of fabric, as if the Janitor was opening its trenchcoat in a deliberately dramatic fashion. It was too bad nobody could see it. Or hear whatever followed, now that Aldon had covered her ears.
The familiar sensation of being shoved through a hole in spacetime quickly enveloped Aldon. An overbearing sense of something she couldn't quite pin down pressed upon her from all directions. A large hand grasped her left shoulder and gave her a light push, and so she walked. The feeling never lessened, and was so alien that she couldn't even gather some semblance of resistance to it. So she walked, The Janitor's hand on her shoulder. Blind, deaf, and drowning in a sea of mystery.
Then her body collapsed into a singularity for a brief moment, and when she regained her senses there was no hand on her shoulder. She cracked an eye open and saw Felix staring at a blank wall even more blankly. Next to him, Cassandra Paulson was glaring at an unknown third anartist who was painting the wall beige. They were inside a large, mostly empty warehouse. Anartists could be seen everywhere, most either cleaning or painting, though a few could be seen carrying around benches.
Power crackled behind her. "I have brought The Sculptor. Is there anything else you need?"
Felix snapped out of his daze. "Allie! Hi! Janitor! No, I don't think so. We should be good for today."
The Janitor nodded and trudged away. Aldon watched it leave, half expecting it to disappear the moment she stopped looking. And then it was gone.
"You okay?" Felix poked her shoulder and she snapped to attention. "Janitor didn't shake you up too much?"
"Nah, he's a big sweetheart," Aldon said. "Or she. Or it. Whatever. Anyway, what's with the whole… warehouse thing? That just looks like normal paint."
"It is normal paint. It's part of the piece."
Aldon looked around. It wasn't all that large a warehouse, really. "The whole place is the piece?"
"Yeah. C'mon, I'll show you around."
Everyone seemed to work a little more earnestly when Felix was near, and worked near frantically whenever Paulson turned her gaze on them. Aldon watched a group of anartists almost drop the mosaic window they were lugging around just because their precious Critic was watching. With methodical effort they hefted the glass up to their peers standing on a pair of ladders, who then somehow affixed the window to the solid wall. Colored light immediately began to pour into the warehouse, bringing the image of a rectangular prism sitting on a table into sharp contrast with the dark warehouse wall.
"Neat," Aldon commented.
"Oh man, neat doesn't begin to cover it," Felix said. "You have no idea how ambitious this whole thing is! I really think I'm making something great here."
Aldon drew her mouth to the side but said nothing, and Felix was too enamored with his self-proclaimed handiwork to notice. Glances at Paulson only earned glares in return, so Aldon quickly gave that up. The odd thing, at least to Aldon, was that the anartists seemed to have taken an interest in her. She caught a fair few of them pointing at her when they thought she wasn't looking.
If this was what it was like to be a celebrity, Aldon would gladly remain in anonymity.
Yet the sheer number of them niggled at her. "So where are all these people from? This is way bigger than your group was before."
Felix grinned. "People flock when word gets out that The Critic is looking for disciples. Everybody wants to be cool." He gave her a look she definitely didn't like. "Whether they'll admit it or not."
Punching him would have been too easy. "Oh, don't you get started. You know why I'm here. After I get my new body I'm bugging the fuck out."
"We'll see."
All Aldon saw was an authority figure who had earned his title by virtue of failing to say "Not it" fast enough. When she looked to the mosaics she saw nothing but a mimicry of former arts without understanding their purpose. Craftsmen and artisans capable of bending reality over backwards and making spacetime their bitch had gathered in such numbers that they needed a warehouse to fit them all. Yet all they strove for was the attention of a man who used to clip newspaper articles.
Surveying the scene around her was reminding her of something, though she couldn't quite place what. She watched groups pull in wooden benches and set them in rows. They all lined up and were facing in one direction, toward a podium with a large platform behind it. It seemed strangely vacant. Behind the poor, empty platform was an even larger mosiac of a man and a woman reaching upwards while the hand of what was likely God reached down.
"Oh." Aldon looked at the benches, now recognizing them to be pews. "Oh." The beige walls and cascading light seemed to finally click into place. "Oh." She stared at the platform that had a distinct lack of statue on it. "Oh."
"So, you figure it out?" Felix asked.
They wanted her to sculpt a god.
"Oh. Fuck."

« Covert Cursing | Hub | Exasperated Efforts »


I am going to kill myself.
Who am I kidding? I probably can't even die at this point. I know that the cyanide I injected isn't working because of the antitoxins put into my blood over a decade ago. Arsenic doesn't work, either; tried using rat poison and got no results.
Everyone at the Foundation thinks I'm omnipotent, that I'm some kind of reality-bending psychopath who goes on 'wacky' adventures with Kondraki, Bright, Rights, Crow… oh, how fucking wrong they are. Konny's in a psych ward, Bright joined the Serpent's Hand and finally managed to die, Rights merged with that… thing she called her pet project, and Crow… poor, poor Crow. I had to shoot him myself.
So, only I remain. Alto Clef. Alto "I will take a shotgun to a reality bender's balls and pull the trigger at point-blank range" Clef. Alto "I blew up the Challenger with my mind" Clef. Alto "I tried killing 239" Clef. Alto "Fucking Satan" Clef.
Maybe the last part is true. Maybe I am Satan. And as my punishment for defying God, I'm forced to never be able to interact with anomalies. I'm not a reality bender; just the opposite. I'm a reality anchor. I'm the only thing that's certain in a world where Yellowstone National Park just started being noticed less than a year ago, and where the spontaneous combustion virus breached containment and killed an entire site in a week, where something that claims to be God walks around containment unhindered- except he can't very well walk anymore. I made sure of that. My last act in life, before I pull the trigger.
I can't see ghosts. I can't walk into another universe; I've tried it, and there's an invisible barrier that keeps me from going through. I can't be affected by bends in reality, but I can touch those who bend it. I can't operate anomalous machinery- I nearly broke 914 by trying to use it in a test. I can't be seen by anything that would even remotely qualify as an actual deity or demon, and I can't see them, either. I can't see any of the hundreds of thousands of wonderful and terrible things that walk in our world. I can see bigfoot, aliens and some other cryptids, probably because they're not 'anomalous' in the traditional sense. They're part of this universe, not from outside of it.
I've only ever been able to interact with three anomalies ever, all of them females. Go figure. The first one was… I can't even remember her name. I knew it, at one point. I think it started with a D. She was the love of my life, and I was told to kill her. I was told to take a shotgun to her head and blow her away just like I blew away a common bixby or a mary sue or a type green or whatever you called them. I couldn't. I saw in her eyes that she was afraid of me. So, I did what I had to. I ran from the Coalition, until there was nowhere left to run. I pledged my services to the Foundation if they promised amnesty for… Dáiríne. That was her name.
I still remember the first bixby I killed. She was twelve years old. I had to run her over with a car. The only thing she did was make one of her dolls come to life because she was just so lonely and needed a friend. She was bullied at school to the point where she started cutting herself. She was twelve. She shouldn't have had to worry about what razor blades would leave the least noticeable scars or getting hit by people in black vans. Al Fine told me I was doing a service to the world. I had half a mind to shoot her right then and there. I waited for about six months before I actually did. Made it look like a mugging gone wrong.
The second anomaly I was ever able to interact with was Epon. My daughter. I say 'interact', but I'm still immune to her anomaly. I knew it was her the instant I saw her. She had her mother's eyes. She's my only proof that there was a man named Alto Clef. My daughter, who's stuck in a cell because the Foundation is afraid that every male in the world is going to try raping her. They call her a succubus. What a joke. If she was a succubus, it would be the other way around. So, my daughter, who you know as 166, is being held against her will for the simple reason that she was born. She doesn't deserve it. I'm hoping that what I left with her will stop anything else from happening to her.
And yet, I can't do anything about it. I can't even let her know I'm her father. The Foundation just thinks it's another anomaly that I'm immune to because I'm an anchor in a stormy ocean. But I know she's my daughter, and I want her to be happy. I tried to make her life a little better, but I had to use half of my contacts just to get a single note into her cell. I had to use the other half to leave my last gift for her. Epon, I'm sorry.
The third one I could interact with was… was Sigurrós. 239, as you know her. That whole shitstorm with her… it was because I was scared. I could actually feel her in my mind. And I was terrified. I had to kill her because, if she could get into my mind, she could do anything. I couldn't let that power go unchecked. The whole Telekill Sword thing was bull. In my hands, a sharp stick could have killed her.
I think that whole thing happened the way it did because, whatever 239 is, it wanted to toy with us. It wanted to laugh at us. It made me fight Kondraki. It made the thoughts in my mind into a dragon. It made everyone else act like fucking idiots just for a laugh. It was doing that for years, ever since we discovered it.
She's dead, now. I put a cocktail of cyanide, arsenic, whatever 035 and 075 produce (I got it from the Coffee Machine with help from an assistant), and a few dozen other things into her system. She melted, right then and there. Since then, people have started acting normal again. Gears Gerry actually laughed yesterday, when I told him a joke. It almost made me rethink this plan.
But I know the Foundation is gonna figure out who melted 239 at some point. And because the Foundation's motto is Secure, Contain, Protect, not Destroy, Destory Destroy, Destroy, I'm going to get my mind-wiped and dumped on the side of the road in Albuquerque or something. I'm not about to let that happen.
My name is not Alto Clef. But it's probably the name you'll know me by, assuming the O5s don't expunge all record of my existence. My will can be found in Dr. Bright's old office, behind where he used to keep the picture of his family on the south-eastern wall.
Assuming I can go to Hell, well, I'll see you all there someday.
-Alto Clef.

The above document was found in the office of Dr. Alto Clef following the sound of gunshots being reported from the general vicinity. When security teams arrived, blood matching that of Dr. Clef was found on the wall directly behind his desk, along with some brain matter and buckshot embedded in the wall. A spent shotgun casing was found underneath his desk, along with a Winchester 1912 shotgun that formerly belonged to Dr. Clef; saliva matching his DNA was found on the end of the barrel.
To date, Dr. Clef's body has not been recovered. His current status is unknown.


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Anabasis Voice of Decay
Start here
Eat more of my SCPs. Eat them all.
Also please eat some of these

Anabasis Hub Probably the greatest story involving a pair of redheaded siblings whose infighting causes the end of the world
Manna Charitable Foundation 2000 The sequel to the above, collaborationed with Dr Reach
The Stuff Industry What happens when everyone around you at work is a complete idiot and so are you, but not only does no one get fired, but you actually turn a profit? I don't know, some stuff.
When MCF and Stuff happen A fun story of incompetence

The house hadn't been wrecked. That at least was a blessing. She hadn't known Rhiannon to be a peaceful drunk, and it had been two days since Priss had punched her out. She'd left the lights on before leaving; they were out now, so either Rhie had finally come back home, or she was about to meet someone with brand new second-hand electronic appliances in hand.
Rhiannon was seated backwards on a chair in the living room, hair half-covering her face, the only light being from the television.
"Hey Prissy. How're the hormones treating you? Not so good, it seems."
Priss set aside her coat, and stepped up to her sister. The way she twisted her back as she leaned her head up towards her made her want to slap the rest of her teeth out.
"Go on. Make sure to buy me some shiny new ones. Porcelain is fine, I'm not fancy."
"Why don't you just talk to me instead of acting like a freak? This is all for attention, isn't it. Why can you never just sit down and fucking tell people what's going on and let them help you instead of having these freak-outs and expecting us to guess afterwards what the fuck happened?"
"Prissy, you swung first. I was trying to introduce you to some friends."
"And I apologize for that —"
"I don't accept your apology."
" — But this isn't about me, Rhiannon." Priss leaned in closer, close enough to smell the lingering scent of liquor wafting through the gap where her front teeth had been, "Your boss says some racist things, so you have an existential crisis and drink all day?"
She simply shrugged, "I'm making new friends. You only have Annie-poo. I bet she has a crush on you, but she doesn't know, does she?"
"I have a friend I know and love and can depend on in any situation. When was the last time you had a friend who would even let you pass out drunk on their couch and make sure you didn't end up robbed or raped or," Priss lost it, and flung her notepad at the nearby floor lamp, knocking it over. "You don't have friends, you have people you drink with!"
Rhiannon rose sluggishly, turning the chair, and sitting properly, scooting close to one of the couches so Priss could sit across from her, "I'm ready to talk, then."
Priss clenched her jaw, and sat. Rhiannon always liked going to great lengths to pester, harass, disrupt, and disturb others, and there was never a "too far" with her.
"I don't belong here, Prissy," she said flatly, then elaborated, "In this world. I can't handle the bullshit. The racism, the 'white pride', the ultra-nationalism, the constant hostilities. Living in a country where every day is a paranoid delusion, 'the Qing are makin' gains in Asia, it's gonna be world war three!', 'the Africans are unitin', they're gonna come for our lands, world war three!', 'Europe's gettin' uppity, world war three!'"
"It's better now than it's ever been in human history. Less war, less violence, even less racism."
Rhiannon shook her head. "No it's not. It can't be right. Just because there's less violence doesn't mean the world's gettin' better. When was the last time income inequality was this high, with all signs pointing to it getting higher? When was the last time billions of people started willingly laying down and accepting the end of their democracy in the name of religion?"
Priss crossed her arms and leaned back on the couch, "I could probably name quite a few instances."
"You know women in Turkey and Syria used to wear bikinis to the beach not too long ago? Before the Ottomans fell and got replaced by those Islamist faggots?"
"That's their problem. They'll get over it at their own pace."
"You know, Prissy, it's not healthy sitting and stewing in filth because you're too much of a pussy to stir shit up and risk people getting hurt for something better. Someone wise once said, 'A just war is preferable to an unjust peace'."
"What does that even mean?"
Rhiannon rose again, extending a hand out to her sister, "I want to change the world for the better. Will you help me, Priscilla Locke?"
She glared at Rhiannon, not buying this apparent sincerity, "When are you getting another job?"
Rhiannon stepped aside, letting her hand gently brush along Priss's legs before moving to the door, "I'll see you on the other side, Prissy."

Shi Mingxia watched as the little woman bowed, and scurried over to the console to input the visitor's name. She had such little feet, a relic from the previous century. So uncivilized, yet people still marveled at it as a sign of wealth. The fact that the woman was working now behind a desk belied the sense in the practice of footbinding in a time when wealth was so fleeting.
"You are Manchu, yes?" The woman asked in a wispy little voice.
Mingxia looked down at her own broad feet. Manchu hadn't ever practiced footbinding, "How did you know?"
"Your accent," the woman smiled, and guided her over to the elevator. She waved as the doors closed, leaving Shi Mingxia alone.
She stood almost two meters tall, and built like a supermodel. No one in her family could believe she wasn't secretly Jinyiwei or a porn star. Nope, I'm just a lab assistant, she'd tell them. That only made them joke more about her.
So when the opportunity came up, she joined the Jinyiwei.
The doors slid open, and she stepped out, bowing politely to Mr. Hung as he approached. He extended a hand out to her, and led her down the hall, into the meeting room.
This was her second time meeting the group, and they had already started treating her like family. Even the fact that she was a woman seemed to have no bearing on how they seemed to respect her.
I'm just a lab assistant.
They entered a dimly lit room, with decorative Qing-style banners coating the windows, and a plush carpet covering the floor. The four men were kneeling around a heavily robed woman, her face covered, leaving only her nose and upper lip exposed. The woman motioned for Shi Mingxia to come and sit. She took a seat before the woman.
"You are the lab assistant?" The woman's voice was dry and harsh.
She nodded, then realized the woman's face was covered. The woman nevertheless went on.
"To Dr. Sienowicz?"
"Yes."
"Dr. Sienowicz passed away last week."
"I had heard, my lady."
The lady gave a hiss, like air escaping a pipe. "'My Lady'… You don't even know who I am."
"My apologies."
"You are aware he was doing work on a bacterial substance collected from the dead in Laos?"
"Yes."
"Have you observed the bacterial substance personally?"
"I have."
"Unusual, is it not? Describe it to me as if I were a child."
Shi Mingxia quirked a brow at the woman, not sure if the woman would see her making the gesture. The woman's tone indicated she already knew what it was. Presumably she meant for the men around her to know as well.
"The bacterium is unusually receptive to foreign environments. It thrives whether exposed to extreme heat or cold. And it appears mutates in highly suspect ways."
"Meaning what?"
She shrugged. "I don't know how to explain simply…"
"It listens. Does it not?"
"That is one way of putting it." At the woman's silence, she elaborated. "While discussing an unrelated bacterium with Dr. Sienowicz, I was observing the bacterium in question. I mentioned the rigidity of its nucleotides, making it very fragile and unlikely to adapt if exposed to a similar sequence from a synthetic sequence. As I spoke, the bacterium in question began to mutate. Its nucleotides began to break down and re-structure themselves. In short, it began to change itself exactly as I spoke, as if mistakenly believing I was speaking of the bacterium itself."

Sharpe easily saw the humor in Priss's situation. "Just lay off, man."
Priss glared at her.
Sharpe winced. "Sorry. I mean it, though… technically it was you who threw the first punch."
Priss grit her teeth, trying to move past into the building — the newly designated Site-804. Sharpe easily slipped in front of her.
"Has she robbed anyone? Stolen anything? Killed anyone? Broken any laws? Done anything that might get you in trouble? Associate with potential lawbreakers?"
"No."
Sharpe again swept in front of her, arms spread. "Babe."
Priss snorted, and tried to cover a smile. "No."
"Babe. Let sleepin' dawgs lah."
"She's going to get worse —"
"Let sleepin' dawgs lah."
Priss burst out laughing, unable to hold back, "You don't even sound like him."
"I got the accent good, though. Still can't believe the cunt got re-elected. Fraud for sure."
"Ari, look…"
The school doors were open. Inside was murmuring, as if a small crowed were gathered just beyond view of the front door.
"Speaking of cunts…" Sharpe lunged up the steps and went inside, her imposing frame making it easy. Priss followed after her.
The interior hadn't changed, but now dust coated the walls. Schoolbooks were stacked on the front desk, and the computer was gone. Sharpe was well ahead of her, peering in to one of the classrooms facing the front. She waved Priss over to peer inside. The room was stacked with desiccated corpses wrapped in plastic, looking like hoary carpets placed in storage. Few of them were dressed, all of them looked badly decomposed and much too dry to have been laying about in a south Florida school for too long.
"Well shit," Sharpe remarked, eyes darting among the corpses. She cautiously stepped in, reaching out with one hand to see if she could touch them, if they were real. The noise of disturbed plastic being brushed by her fingers confirmed that.
"Burial ground," Priss started piecing it together, "There must've been one nearby, in some universe or another. Anabasis brought it in. Really shitty way of storing corpses, though."
That seemed to calm Sharpe. She even grinned, pulling aside the plastic over one corpse to look in its face, "Look at this one. Cheekbones on her. Speaking of cunts, this one reminds me of Dr. Marlowe." She pried more of the plastic off, then stopped suddenly.
"What the fuck is wrong with you? Why are you even touching them?"
Sharpe tugged the corpse up a bit. It was still dressed, the clothes looking just as decrepit as the body. A warped plastic nametag was attached to it. The remaining portion read 'Dr. Jaime'.
"Dr. Jaime Marlowe, you think?" Sharpe glanced up at Priss.
Priss sneered, and knelt down, rubbing the plastic tag. None of the rest was legible, but it looked similar to a Foundation-issue identification tag. "Like I said. Alternate universe landfill."
"Not a burial ground anymore?"
Priss led the way out, down to the basement where the Anabasis itself was being stored. Despite her strong front and assurance that the corpse pile was part of the Anabasis testing, she had been sufficiently rattled by the suddenness of it. Given the nature of Foundation business, enough doubt needled at her to make her steps stiff and rushed as she burst into the room holding the Anabasis. Seeing Dr. Marlowe seated near it, behind a computer, was a relief.
"Oh hi, Jaime," Sharpe said to her. Marlowe glanced back at her placidly, cold eyes conveying just enough malice to indicate her distaste.
"Just in case we're not being set up for a really tasteless prank, you know about the mess of corpses upstairs being stashed in a classroom?"
Marlowe continued to stare blankly at her.
"Oh for fuck's sake."
Marlowe got up without a word, brushing past the two as she went outside. Sharpe and Locke followed after her. The building seemed to have changed — it was no longer caked in dust. The computer was back at the front desk. Sharpe guided Marlowe to the classroom. It was empty, filled with desks and chairs.
"You say you saw corpses?" Marlowe asked in a firm tone.
Priss responded, "Loads of them. Dried out, brown and gray. Each of them rolled in plastic. One of them…" She glanced at Dr. Marlowe, noticing her cheekbones then, "One of them was you. Had your nametag, I think."
Out in the hall, Sharpe's voice echoed, "Ey! Who the fuck are you?"
The women rushed outside, seeing Sharpe lunging at a small man carting a garbage bin, thickly bearded and bald on top, looking terrified at the tall woman approaching her.
"Who the fuck are you?" Sharpe repeated.
"I work here!" he cried out.
"Sharpe!" Marlowe called in a crisp tone, "Get back here."
Sharpe obeyed, but kept her mouth going, "I've never seen that guy here before — he did something, I fucking bet it. He must be some kind of… anomalous boogin' trying to fuck with us in some way or another."
Marlowe needed only a stern glare to shut the taller woman up. Once she was quiet, Marlowe went on in a soft voice, "If this is what happens when you two skip work for a day, I'm having you two re-assigned. Sharpe, you do not go off screaming at people like that. You're supposed to be a Foundation agent, not a child."
Sharpe squirmed uncomfortably, then Marlowe turned on Locke. "Write down everything you saw and give me the report as soon as possible. Do not discuss this with anyone else on-site until everyone else's stories are corroborated."
"Meaning other people have seen this, too?"
"I'm not at liberty to discuss this," Marlowe responded, shutting down any attempt at follow-up. She shifted a bit, "Now go. Ana's waiting on me…"

Rhiannon squatted on the little futon in the center of the room. Everyone had equal voice here; respect kept others quiet while people spoke. She was the center of attention for as long as their patience would allow. It meant she had to entertain if she wanted her message to get through.
"Let me tell you a story about a man of the times…
"This story begins in a little household in Oklahoma, where two girls were raised in a little house by two little minds and little in the way of any purpose in life. Daddy was the son of a veteran, mommy was a nothing-nobody from someplace in Asia. 'All-white' she said, 'military brat born on a military base' which was just fine with daddy, so long as his pure white wife kept bein' all sexy-fine.
"Is it wrong for a man of the times to fall in line with what's considered 'good' and 'right'? Anyone thinking about the blacks or the Asians as potential friends was a 'degenerate'. So what if little baby boy came out with eyes just a bit too slender for his own good? Is it wrong for a man of the times to fall in line with what's considered 'good' and 'right' when his pure white wife turned out to be not quite all white? She was bein' all sexy-fine, but that little baby boy was venom by his mere presence.
"The poor baby boy. No—the poor man of the times. The little baby boy gets to rest forevermore; the man of the times has a little skeleton to hide. But with his pure white wife bein' all sexy-fine, how could the man of the times tear his pretty white life asunder because of a little white lie? So instead out popped two little girlies, redheaded and white. The ultimate guarantee of purity for a man of the times. Surely that poor little baby boy had been a fluke; maybe his pure white wife, bein' all sexy-fine, had had a man a little lower down on the rungs of the food chain.
"Beginning again, the man of the times and his pure white wife built a happy little home for their two little girlies, redheaded and white, atop a poor little grave to be forgotten forevermore. The man of the times and his pure white wife made sure their two little girlies, redheaded and white, grew up knowing their place in the world. It was a man's world, yes, but so long as you were white, even a little girlie could become leader of the whole white world.
"Of course, as long as she was white.
"The man of the time crossed over the line when the poor little baby boy's poor little grave came to light. Buried under locke and key, the man of the time forgot his crime and moved his little family to a new home, leaving his past behind to be dug up by the next man looking to carve out a piece of the Earth for a bit of aquatic luxury for his own little household.
"End result, the man of the time sees the truth of his time—children are children, no matter how non-white. A despicable crime, for which the man of the time would never see the light of day again. No matter how pure and white his intentions, the blood he shed would spell his end.
"The pure white wife and the two little girlies now face some shit ahead. For it turns out the world they live in may not be so loving as the man of the time; they may not fit. But the man of the time parted ways with his little family with a precious gift—a little white lie. A little white lie which tarnished the pure white wife but left the two little girlies still redheaded and white.
"Game gets played and the new truth is set in stone, better than the old; these two little girlies are innocent of their parents' crime. Off to daddy's daddy they go, where one little girly learns what's what with the world, and the other little girly has old soldier grandpappy's stories to keep her eyes shut and her mind sweet and white.
"Is that it? You might be asking. What little family hasn't had a problem or two, lost a man of the time or a pure white wife, or seen the little girlies go through rough times until they get to thrive in adulthood? The kiddies at school had eyes sharper than the law, they saw subhuman mongrels, no matter how redheaded and white the two little girlies could be. They kicked and bit them, beat them and whipped them.
"Over time, the two little girlies started drifting apart. The kicks got harder, the torment went past the freckled-white skin, and no legal games could change the fact that no matter how bright the eyes, fiery the Lockes, or numerous the freckles, the two little girlies just weren't white enough. One of the two little girlies fell in line, falling hard for a North Georgia boy and renouncing her own blood. The other little girlie stood fast and firm, as the torture escalated. Pins in her seat, animal carcasses in her bags, pain and abuse and humiliation! How much lower can you degrade a person? they asked. Much, much lower, they reached. You would simply not believe.
"Now the story became too much for one of the little girlies. Whom among us wouldn't tell a story such as this—a little white lie to hide their shame? The two little girlies weren't white, 'One drop is all it takes', said the President on the campaign. One drop of non-white blood, a subhuman mongrel makes. The little girly sees and hears it all, and knows that 'Us vs. Them' actually means 'Them vs. Us.'
"'No more!' the other little girly says to her sister! "Shut up and leave me alone!" She won't listen. She's ready to become a pure white wife, bein' sexy-fine like her momma with a fine man of the times from North Georgia. The split occurs, and the little girlies, redheaded and white, part ways in life. The white one went off to follow the old soldier grandpappy's dreams, and now hides behind the little white lie. Another brick in the wall.
"'Fine and dandy.' the mongrel one says. 'Go forth and be happy, become one with society, dearest Priss, you and your precious North Georgia boy,'
"Oh, what's that? The great white horde cannot forgive, and the great white horde will not abide! "We tolerate you in our pure white society because you look white, but now you're going too far." You need to pay the price and obey the law!
"The price is your womanhood, Dearest Prissy. Your love would never bear fruit. But The North Georgia boy… he couldn't stand what you'd done! He refused to be with you! And off he went, to find someone more precious to bear him fruit. You cried for weeks, you didn't want to live anymore, little Prissy, and I was there for you, to save you from yourself. I knew then what the value of our little white lies really were.
"Horrors… That's what I saw when I opened my eyes. Look to the lands beyond our borders and see the heaps of subhuman mongrel bodies used to prop us up; United States of Western Civilization! Greatest in the world!
"'No more little white lies,' no more falling in line, no more being a woman of the time. Right and wrong are not majority rule. The truth has power of its own, but the voice of the people is what it needs to truly thrive."

« Rigged from the Start | Voice of Decay | Rot »
Anabasis Hub


Do you, too, have a question (or questions) about Humes? Put them down below and they will be answered.
Q: What do areas of high (or low) Hume concentration look like?
-Dr. S
A: An area of low Hume concentration is a very strange place indeed. Without the stability of ordinary reality, regular humans can alter the area to their whim, granting temporary reality bender-like abilities. These should not be confused with the real thing, of course; they are merely a projection of a higher-Hume frame of reference on a lower-Hume environment, and the 'abilities' vanish as soon as the subject leaves the area. In addition, since reality is much less dense in these areas, the incidence of spontaneous anomalies and universe breaches are significantly higher. However, these anomalies/breaches do not vanish when taken from the vicinity. The reason for this is unknown at the current time.
An area of high Hume concentration, on the other hand is a very strange place. To normal humans, it appears vivid and overpowering, a place of a superworldly aura. Remember how the Himalayas have a high Hume concentration? This applies to all mountains—there's a reason they're often sought out as a place of enlightenment. To reality benders, on the other hand, these areas are flat, grey, and earthy. Since the Hume concentration in these areas are usually close to (or higher than) the reality bender's own levels, they have significant trouble exerting their powers in these areas; in some cases being completely restricted from affecting the area. As such, reality benders tend to avoid these areas, instinctively or otherwise; the currently-in-construction Site-35 (augmented with special Scranton anchors and located in the Himalayas) promises to act as effective containment for reality benders when completed.
Q: Is it possible for a regular human to become a reality bender?
-Dr. S
A: Yes; and there are many, many rituals and gimmicks that promise to do so. However, the list of actual techniques to do so is very small; and is currently being compiled.
Q: Is it possible for animals to have hume fluctuations as well?
-Dr. S
A: Yes! At least one cat is suspected of it, as well as several dogs and some fleas; there is evidence coming in that certain whales may be capable of it as well. It is also hypothesized that inanimate objects are capable of this, but testing has been difficult and the hypothesis is unproven.
Q: Do we have any methods by which to test for Hume fluctuations at a great distance, such as interplanetary or further?
-Dr. K
A: At the moment, no. As I understand, a great many options on this front are being tested, but until then, we can only measure Hume concentrations locally.
What are our options for detecting reality affecting entities at such distances?
-Dr. K
A: As mentioned above, effectively none.
Does being in the vacuum of space alter the nature of Hume variance in any way?
-Dr. K
A: Short answer: No. Longer answer: space is a little strange. Its baseline Hume concentration is slightly higher than Earth concentrations, with the same variations seen on Earth. In fact, it is hypothesized that most of space has a Hume level equal to (or lower than!) Earth's norm, and that galaxies and clusters act as Hume concentration areas in the same way that mountains do here on Earth. However, this is only an educated guess until we can find an actual method of testing it.
Are large and low Hume ratings expected to remain unusually high or low in parts or organs of a reality bender when detached or their user becomes deceased? Are there different Hume concentrations in certain organs rather than others? If so, which?
-Dr. R
A: A good question, and one we haven't studied much at this time. Preliminary results seem to indicate that all organ Hume concentrations are higher than the baseline, with the heart, liver, and brain possessing the most concentration; but these levels are not as large as those present in the reality bender when alive. As the reasons for this are unknown, and as the possibility of some freak Hume fluctuation or contamination cannot be crossed out, all of this is speculation at the moment, and needs to be verified by further research.
Are there any noise or interfering "background signals" when measuring Hume concentrations in areas supposed to be "clean" of reality-bending effects?
-Dr. R
A: Yes! Basically, what we've seen is that in a completely isolated area freed of outside influences, the baseline Hume concentration seems to fluctuate up to +/- 9 centiHumes. So two readings taken in the same place in different times can yield significantly different Hume concentrations. The reason behind this phenomenon, by the way, is unknown at this time.
Has any cognitohazardous, infohazardous or memetic effect been related to alterations in Hume ratings? (To clarify: this is a question on the respective effects these agents have on human psyche and brain chemistry, and not on the various anomalous effects affected individuals may display after being exposed to them; that is, can information alone and its knowledge change Hume ratings?)
-Dr. R
A: No, none of the above materials or effects have been linked to Hume concentrations. It appears that these effects do not affect the local reality, instead creating changes solely in the affected person's thought processes and brain. However, the anomalous effects displayed after exposure can (and have) multiple effects on Hume concentrations (see SCP-1425 for more information on this.)
Finally, this is partly a request. Several medical doctors and health officers of the Foundation Medical Branch have requested access to miniaturized Scranton Reality Anchors to test their prolonged effects on human beings, particularly on possible relation to altered mental states and the general well-being of operators and civilians. Is there any way to request access to them for testing purposes or have these matters been looked into already? In case this has been tested, when will you publish a paper on it?
-Dr. R
A: Well, from what we've seen on personnel working on SCP-2000, Scranton anchors don't seem to have any negative effects in the short term. All such requests for long-term testing would have to be funneled through the Ethics Committee, and all papers produced thus can be published on the SCP Foundation's internal servers (basically the Foundation's private arXiv.)
Have any locations or objects with zero or negative Hume values been discovered? What might such values represent?
-Dr. T
A: As of yet, no. In nature, the lowest Hume concentrations we've ever encountered have been in the vicinity of ~.27/.28 H; which, while low, is still quite far from an "absolute zero" concentration. Artificially, we've been able to get concentrations down to .15 H; again, low, but still quite far from that perfect zero. While it is theoretically possible that a zero Hume concentration can exist, it is incredibly unlikely that such a thing can exist naturally in nature or can be artificially created without massive repercussions, as such a thing would not be considered "reality" as we think of (or experience) it. As for negative Humes…we haven't even put any negative numbers on the Kant counter dial, so how would we even know what we're measuring? (And that's ignoring the fact that negative Humes would probably indicate that something's gone horribly wrong in the general structure of the universe, and that, as such, whoever's holding the Kant counter should probably be getting the hell out of Dodge.)
It has been mentioned that the SRAs work via "siphoning off" reality from other universes, for lack of a better term. Are there any effects, negative or otherwise, that are known or theorized to be caused by the SRAs outside of their desirable primary effect?
-Dr. N
A: For the universes we're siphoning the reality from, probably quite a lot of negative effects; including, but certainly not limited to: generalized reality breakdown, an increase in anomaly instances, increased reality transparency, an upswing in nonlinear time areas, chronological anomalies, spontaneous localized reality collapse, and a whole host of other things that we haven't even considered. That's why we calibrate our SRAs (nice acronym; I like it) to only drain reality from dead universes. These include universes that are already in their last legs, i.e. undergoing heat death; universes that have been through one of the -K class scenarios (except for IK, for obvious reasons) and thus have no surviving life; and universes that, for whatever reason, had no life, sentient or otherwise, to begin with. While the SRAs likely hasten the death of these universes, it's generally considered an acceptable trade-off since these universes generally have nothing worth protecting, and since there are an infinite supply of other, identical, universes floating around as well. As for other effects of SRAs in our universe…that's a good question, and one that definitely merits a long-term study. As mentioned above with SCP-2000, short-term exposure to SRAs do not appear to have short-term detrimental effects, and no long-term effects have been observed. As for any actual long-term effects from short-term exposure, or effects from long-term exposure…your guess is as good as mine.
One of the junior researchers in my department recently theorized that Hume levels propagate in the form of 'reality waves'. Is there any merit to this theory? If so, could an object become 'out of phase' (invisible and incorporeal) with normal reality if its 'reality waves' were out of sync with its surroundings?
-Dr. F
A: From what I can make of it…no. I mean, as quantum physics tells us, all particles have a wavelike nature (and all waves have a particle-like nature.) While there are ways to become out of phase with normal reality, these methods don't directly involve Hume manipulation—you could just pop into another universe, or try to stay in half this universe and half another, or you could change your matter state, or stuff like that. But while these things are cool, they do not, sadly, involve Humes.
What is the average Hume level in vanilla humans? In normal reality?
-Researcher W.
That's a very good question, and one that we've already answered in this paper!
Are there any known reality-benders who can increase or decrease the Hume concentrations in themselves or the surrounding reality at will?
-Researcher W.
Under the Hume-centric definition of reality bender, all known reality benders exhibit this property (with the possible [?] exception of SCP-343.)
If an entity with higher-than-average Humes is a reality-warper, what happens to entities with lower-than-average Hume levels?
-Researcher W.
Good question! Not much research has been done on these people yet, but the initial results seem to indicate that they are unable to push back against reality, leading to lives that end up being…well, whatever reality wants them to be. These are the stereotypical "charmed" or "cursed" people, and their lives usually end up resembling certain stories or tropes. Out of the five people the preliminary tests followed, one recreated the original Grimm brothers version of "Cinderella" down to the dialog used, one had a string of unusually terrible bad luck (among other things, they owned several thousand dollars worth of shares in Enron, were struck by lightning five times, and lost a finger when their cell phone batteries exploded), two were middle managers, and one had served as an O5 for over fifty years. What this means is still hotly debated, and more research must be done.
Since Hume concentration determines the ability to manipulate reality but not the individual states of objects within the area, then SRA's can't actually negate anomalies, right? As in, they can prevent reality benders from making further changes, but they can't actually negate existing anomalies that do not actively require low hume settings or changes in said settings.
-Researcher T.
Right. SRAs can only fix the ambient Hume level in its area of effect. Most anomalies cataloged so far are not exerting Hume influence on the surrounding area, or indeed demonstrating Hume variance at all, and so SRAs cannot be used as a one-size-fits-all negation device.
First, what is the relationship (if any) between Humes and Thaumatological processes (as outlined in those seminar transcripts we got from the GOC)? Can said processes interact with Humes? And finally, does the "Type Green" designation that the Coalition's headgear gives to reality benders have anything to do with their higher hume content?
-Dr. Sh
As of this time, research into (obviously inferior!) GOC reality-cum-bender meterology has not yet been implemented. If one's musings are inclined towards such topics, it might prove a fruitful field of further figurations. As for type greens…well, despite the (obviously inferior!) terminology, they are effectively reality benders; as such, all previous musings on the topic can be applied with little to no problems.
Are Humes composed of matter? And if so, do they have mass? What state of matter are Humes?
Dr. -Ws
As far as we can tell, individual Humes are both massless and infinitely massed.
This is not correct. Humes are not a particle; they are a measurement. See below.
Wait, I thought Humes were how reality stability was measured (like degrees and temperature), but now you're telling me they're particles?
-Dr. Sh
You are correct; Humes are a measure of reality, not a particle. The previous answer was in error. See above.
I'm curious how these two concepts would interact, and indeed whether they are even reconcilable or whether, like some other pairs of theories (I forget which, relativity and quantum mechanics maybe?), they could both be accurate representations of the universe and yet contradict each other: the concept of Hume levels that can be measured on a linear scale, and the concept that the universes within the multiverse are layered on top of one another, with any universes "below" another one constituting what that universe considers "fiction". (Though if you look into the premises behind Operation OverMeta, they clearly aren't arranged in a neat stack, but more like a fractallizing, spiral web.) So:
Q1: As you go down the stack from most real to most fiction-within-a-fictional, would you see a trend in natural Hume levels declining as the realities get less and less real?
Q2: Do humans created via SCP-1304 exhibit abnormal Hume readings? Could a character use a device similar to an SRA to pump themselves full of an insane number of Humes and jump to a higher layer, effectively becoming an author-god to their home universe, but feeling no more powerful because the universe they can now rule just by rewriting it is nothing but a fiction to them?
What if a real person tried that?
Rambling1: Or could it be the other way around? Perhaps "fictional" universes and the "real" universe existed independently of each other from the start, but those we see as "fiction" are able to bleed into the minds of our world's authors because they're even more real than ours? That would certainly make SCP-1304 make more sense.
Rambling2: The potential discrepancy between the theories of linear Hume measurements and layered realities arises when you connect them in reference to universes that aren't stacked, but rather tangled up like a web, as I mentioned earlier. For example, what if I wrote a story about three men, Abel, Brian, and Chris, and said that each wrote a story, and that Brian was a character within Abel's story, and Chris a character in Brian's story (therefore his reality is, to Abel, a story-within-a-story), and yet Abel is a character within Chris' story. How can the three have Hume levels corresponding to their relative levels of reality when each one is simultaneously above and below the other two? Or would they end up all having the same Hume levels? Would the Hume levels be thrown into turbulence by the three realities competing for influence over each other due to their circularly-referential natures?
Could that be the source of the anomalous fluctuations in the real world?
-Mister J
Humes have as much relation to metafiction as fish do to…not-fish? Humes only serve to describe individual realities, and cannot be used to compare separate realities due to their inherently subjective nature. Thus, there is no contradiction between metafiction and Humes; however, Humes also cannot be used to make any observations or assumptions about metafictional constructs.
Q: East Asian thaumatologists such as Taoists or Shugenjas prefers to live in the high mountains. Isn't it contradictory to your explanation?
- Dr. Relpek from Korea
A: While high Hume concentrations make reality bending more difficult, they do not make it impossible. In this case, reality benders who live and train in high-Hume areas got the equivalent of strength training. This made mountains an attractive place to live for reality benders, as it provided a way for them to improve their skills. The practical 90th percentile limit is 6000 metres; however, even after this point, reality bending is possible, if prohibitively difficult. Only at a concentration of 100 Humes is reality bending completely impossible.
Q: Then, why the Western thaumatologists didn't do that?
- Dr. Relpek
A: Most Western wizards were frauds, liars, or not reality benders. While some wizards may have went to mountain ranges such as the Alps for similar reasons, it never developed into a persistent tradition.
Q: What does a 0 Hume universe look like? How about a 100 Hume universe?
-Dr L
There is no absolute Hume scale. This means that a global Hume level of 0 is just the Hume level of the pocket universe we've chosen to be 0. It is the differences between local Hume levels that is responsible for Hume-based phenomena. A universe that has been globally set to an arbitrary value (see below for more on this) will look like our own, only with a greater or lesser imbalance in localized or individual Hume levels (meaning more or less reality bending).
Q: Hypothetically, if the Foundation was able to somehow change the universe's Hume levels to 1 for every person, place and thing, would all anomalies cease to exist or at least stop being created?
- An Intern
No; as mentioned above, it is the differences between localized Hume levels that result in Hume-based phenomena. It has been hypothesized that there is some inherent feature to reality benders that causes them to create a Hume imbalance in their surroundings; without addressing this feature, a Hume imbalance will still exist. In theory, if EVERY part of the universe was fixed at 1 Hume forever then all anomalies that involve Humes would cease to be anomalous; however, we have no ability to even comprehend what would be necessary to fix all Hume readings at the same level, and we have not been able to establish that all anomalies are due solely to Hume-based effects.
This is a good time to announce that, following extensive study, the global Hume scale has been renormalized to a scale of 0-100! To see this in action, please visit the original paper here. For historical reasons mentions of centiHumes on this page have not yet been changed; however, please multiply them by 100 to get the proper Hume levels.
Q: I've seen above that an entity which hume level is below average lives a really spectacular life. Is SCP-503 one of these examples? Or is it an independent anomaly?
-Dr Hal
Unfortunately, we have not studied SCP-503, and cannot draw any conclusions either way. More research in this area is definitely needed.

From:
Dr. Bob Graham
To:
Doctors James Caldmann and Carlos Rzewski

Subject:
Regarding Hume Disturbances

Q:

If Humes are altered in such a way that they become distorted and malformed (if possible), can it alter reality? If so, will it create anomalies (be it in phenomena, physical objects and/or entities, memetic anomalies, cognitohazards, etc.), alter certain objects, directly respond to pre-existing Hume-altering anomalies, or just straight up end the world?

Apologies for the rather long question, but I am doing some crucial researchim writing an SCP that does this pls help -baubius right now, and it would be appreciated if you could respond as soon as possible.

In a word, no. Humes are just a measurement scale. What you're proposing is analogous to modifying a Kelvin and making temperature end the world or something. Humes aren't a particle; they're a unit.
Q: If two objects that could change Hume levels of those around them tried to changing the Hume level of each other would the changes happen or would both objects be able to cancel out the changing Hume level?
-Dr. Kostya
As of now, hume changing anomalies are few and far between, so research is limited. The best answer I can give now is pretty simple, it depends. If two objects used equal amounts of energy to change the hume level of an area to two different values, the value created would be the average of the two (for instance if one wanted to change the value to 100 and 1 to 0, the hume level would change to 50. This means that in specific circumstances hume changing entities can cancel out.) If one object used more energy, the hume field would skew towards its outcome. This is consistent with a tendency for the hume-levels of an area to even out. The generalised formula for this would be:
x = e1/e2 * (x1 + x2)/2
where x is the produced hume level, e1 is the energy level of the hume changer which is attempting to create the highest level, e2 is the energy level of the hume changer which is attempting to create the lowest level, x1 is the higher hume level and x2 is the lowest hume level. Basically, as e1 moves up, the produced hume value also goes up, and as e2 goes up, the produced hume level goes down.
Q: In the previous paper it was stated that there are a few known ways to increase one's own Hume level. However, is it possible to decrease it? If so, could this be used to initiate more research on beings with low Hume levels?
-Dr. B
Q: Are SCPs with inconsistent internal topologies or inconsistent internal timestreams examples of environments where some anomalous aspect of the site has a reality-bender level of Humes, and is able to reshape the site as it wishes?
-Site-12 Question Box
Q: If I carried around a device which lowered the hume levels in an area around me and increased my hume levels, would I effectively become a temporary reality bender, and if so, with a strong enough device, could I become more powerful than even SCP-343?
-Dr. Grey
Q: Reading through this had to lead to questions about the nature of 'Nobody'. If someone had a perfectly average hume level, could that lead to a person who can't do anything to change the world around them?
-Dr. Wright
Q: Where, exactly, were the highest and lowest hume levels ever recorded found?
-Researcher B
QA: What would "i" value hume level be? Like the square root of negative 1. Would it not exist because "i" doesn't exist?1.
QB: Then what about negative "i"? Does a being with negative "i" hume level be less nonexistant than "i" or be the opposite meaning it's more existant than anything.
~Dr. Bone
Q: Theoretically, could negative humes exist despite their obvious contradiction of Kejel's Laws of Reality?
~Containment Specialist Matism
Q: You both said that 0 Humes is both absolute zero but also an arbitrary value needed for comparison? Like, which one is it?
-Dr. Foreman
Q: You said what activation of SCP-668 temporary rises Hume level to to astronomical (>670 Hm; or 67 Hm? It is become very more worse to understanding after renormalization) levels across all known space. This effect must to interact with other anomalies in all the world, which are related to Humes, is not it? For example, activation of SCP-668 must temporary suppress or make weaken abilities of reality benders and thaumatologists. Also, this activation temporary must make all normal people as people with lower-than-average Hume level, is not it? Or, maybe, information from previous part about SCP-668 is incorrect, partial or simply outdated, and new researches of SCP-668 have shown new details?
-Dr. Murzei
Q1: Suppose a Reality Bender decides to change the color of an apple in their immediate vicinity, extending their hand but not touching it. What element traveled from their hand to the apple? Could this change in environment be done FTL? (See: being able to alter, from the moon and in less than a second, the color of an apple on Earth).
Q2: Knowing that a reality bender passively decreases the Humes around them, what happens when multiple reality benders are in the same place? Will the effect stack with multiple subjects, reaching dangerous levels, Or will it simply adopt measures befitting the most powerful Bender present?
-Site-34 Question Box

Footnotes
1. Well "i" does exist but you know what I mean


Q: So what the hell is a Hume?
A: A good question! A Hume is a way to determine the strength and/or amount of reality in a given area. Now, you may have issues with reality being measured this way, and it's certainly a hard concept to grasp. One of the better analogies that can be used to explain this works like this: picture that everything in the universe is covered with a thin layer of sand. This is the baseline level of reality-one Hume. When some of the sand is removed, by any means, there is less sand around, and the level of reality has dropped. When sand is added, there is more reality around. Now, this explanation is highly simplistic, but it helps introduce the concept and gives a nice visual representation. So, using this analogy, Humes just measure the amount of sand in an area. Clear?
Q: But how do we define these things? What are they in relation to?
Another good question! Every measurement has got to be defined in relation to something, and so we devised a way to create a Hume baseline. We created two pocket realities that each contain Scranton Reality Anchors that maintain the Hume levels at an arbitrarily high and low level. These levels have been designated 100 and 0, respectively. It is from these pocket universes that Hume measurements arise.
Q: So how are Humes measured?
A: Via the Kant counter! A Kant counter consists of two portals to the pocket universes discussed above. Using these as a baseline, the Hume level of a localized area can be measured.
Q: Brilliant! Where's your Nobel?
A: As per Foundation policy, outside sharing/recognition of work is impossible. But fear not! We've been compensated more than adequately, and, in addition, we recently got a very favorable Ethics Committee ruling authorizing a mission to speed the progress of outside researchers on the same track as us; meaning that Humes may be present in the world in as little as a few years!
Q: How can Humes help me?
A: If you work with lots of reality benders or reality-bending-based SCPs, you're in luck!
First off, reality benders. These people have a twofer effect on reality. Firstly, reality surrounding them is usually slightly less real than normal. Secondly, their own personal Hume reading is usually a little higher than is normal. The magnitude of the first and second are, of course, related to the relative power of the bender in question. Usually, a low-level reality bender runs at about 75-80/130-150 (Hume level of surrounding area/Hume level of individual; this will be used for all future examples.) Especially in the case of low-level benders, extreme discretion must be used to avoid a false positive on reality benders, as these readings can fluctuate in vanilla humans. For more information, see this lecture on reality benders. It's a huge help. Powerful reality benders, however, usually run at about 40</>300, indicating a large ability to shape reality. Of note is SCP-343. Unlike all other reality benders, it does not exert any influence whatsoever on outside reality. However, its internal Hume reading is astronomically high, registering at an average of 860 Humes (averaged across seven different tests; more ongoing.) This indicates many things, all of which are being heatedly debated by the researchers studying SCP-343. Finally, take the case of SCP-239. Unlike many powerful reality benders, where area of effect, internal, and external Hume readings all are quite large, SCP-239 has an unusual twist. Her area of effect is quite low; only extending to her line of sight and/or imagination (which, while seemingly giving her an infinite area of effect, is really only limited to what she can actually imagine, and thus can be generally ruled out with proper containment.) However, her readings are 30/500, granting her a nearly unlimited ability to shape her local reality as she sees fit. As in the case of 343, the meaning, cause, and containment procedures for this are being debated extensively.
Humes can also be applied to non-human anomalies. For instance, take SCP-2464. The Hume measurement inside both the anomaly as well as SCP-2464-2 have unequivocally confirmed the hypothesis regarding the anomaly, (see the addendum for more information,) allowing for more effective containment. As another case, take SCP-668. This tool perpetually raises the Hume readings within a meter or so of it by approximately twenty Humes when not active. When active, the Hume level rises to astronomical (>670 Hm) levels across all measuring Kant counters, and it is theorized that this effect extends across all known space. Following this realization, 1) more effective containment for SCP-668 was put in place, and 2) immediate monitoring of all Kant counters commenced in order to serve as a warning system for the existence of any more anomalies in the same fashion. Finally, take the example of SCP-2000. To facilitate containment, Scranton Reality Anchors were constructed and deployed. Prior to this, it was not known how or why Reality Anchors operate. Now, we know both how the Anchors work (by keeping local reality at a constant 20 Hm) and why they work (in keeping with the sand metaphor, it works like this: they drain sand from different, nonessential universes to keep the supply of sand in ours steady. It's nothing like that, but the metaphor roughly holds).
Q: Last, but certainly not least, who are you two?
A: Doctors James Caldmann and Carlos Rzewski.
Questions? Confusion? Accusations? Come to FAQ 2, the Electric Boogaloo, where all your Hume-related questions will be answered!


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Researcher Conwell sat in a slightly uncomfortable chair. The room in which he sat was a musty study, complete with polished wooden furniture and the smell of old books. The light from the afternoon sun crept in from a small window on the opposite wall, bathing the interior in a bright orange glow. Conwell gave a weak chuckle to himself as he imagined the room was on fire. A series of quick glances from the other guests returned Conwell to silence.
Conwell looked himself over as he sat. He was clean shaven and dressed up for the occasion, that is, he dressed up by his standards. Black slacks, black dress shoes, a nice dark blue dress shirt and an even nicer tie. He hoped that these would draw attention away from the very dark rings under his eyes that made him look particularly run down. In addition, he hoped he wouldn't stand out among the other well-dressed men in the room.
He took the opportunity to quickly glance at the three other guests. One was a balding man with a short cropped beard and dark glasses. Conwell smiled to himself as he was reminded of the batman villain Hugo Strange. Conwell thought he had seen the bald man before, perhaps aboard the SCPS Cassandra or maybe at Site-84. He couldn't put his finger exactly on where. The bald man sat patiently on a small couch with a drink in one hand as he idly spoke to another guest sitting to his left.
Conwell shifted in his seat as he awkwardly attempted to find a small spot of comfort in his chair. He did not succeed. He then turned his attention back to the guest sitting to the left of the bald man. This man had short grey hair, and a pair of thick glasses that sat on the end of his nose. Conwell knew his name to be Dr. Gregg Collins. The two of them had met several times before, each meeting serving as a chance to reestablishing their slight mutual dislike for the other. It did not help that Collins appearance reminded him of the human equivalent of a chicken. He couldn't hear what the two men were discussing, but the two would occasionally nod to one another.
A final guest stood alone by one of the bookcases. The thick stubble covering his face and way he carried himself gave Conwell more of the impression that he was some kind of rock star rather than an employee of the Foundation. The man would casually look over the various objects upon the shelves. Every now and then he'd pick up one and quietly examine it before gently setting it back. Conwell thought he had seen this man around Site-19 before, but didn't have a name to go with the face.
Conwell's head snapped to attention when their host returned to the room. He was an elderly man who moved slowly with a walnut cane. A large wooden box was cradled beneath his arm. Conwell slightly deflated as the man looked his way and smiled. What once had been a cheerful and lively man despite his advanced years now looked practically undead. His skin was pale and shrunken, and all his movements seemed to be at great personal expense.
This man was all that was left of the once great Dr. Zachary Johnson.
Johnson made his way slowly to his desk. All of the guests remained silent, watching as he put down the box and cleared his throat.
“Dr. Johnson, what the hell happened to you?” Conwell interrupted, leaning forward in his increasingly more uncomfortable chair. Johnson replied by putting up a hand for silence.
“Give me a moment to get there,” he said with a sad smile. “First off, allow me to thank you all for being here. I know that for some of you this meeting was short notice, and that the trip was a great distance. I cannot begin to say how much I appreciate all of you attending. I see some of you have already found the drinks. If you haven't already, please help yourselves as we proceed.”
Conwell glanced around nervously, squirming in his seat. He wanted to demand answers, but bit his tongue instead. All of the other guests appeared to keep their composure as they waited on bated breath. Their attention was solely on Johnson.
“I will not mince words with you, gentlemen,” Johnson continued. “I am dying. It was the reason for my retirement. I have been diagnosed with Glioblastoma multiforme, and should the disease continue its course, I will be dead within the next four months.”
Conwell's mouth dropped and hung open for several moments. He could vaguely hear the other guest's reactions, but couldn't comprehend them. It was as if the outside world had become muffled and distant. His arms went numb as the news sunk in.
“No…”
Johnson looked him dead in the eye and gave his head a small nod. Conwell sank deeper into the iron maiden that was his chair, and rested his head in his hand. Johnson waited a few more moments, but then continued his speech.
“Rather than burden all of you with my suffering, I felt it would be more my style to take advantage of what strength I have left and leave each of you a final gift,” Johnson said. “You know, say my goodbyes while I'm still half the man I was. While I still embody how I'd like to be remembered.”
Johnson paused for a moment. He scanned the room as his gaze met each of his guests before he proceeded to turn his attention to the wooden box. Carefully he removed a smaller, more ornate box made of a black polished material. There was something carved on the lid, but Conwell couldn't see what it was from his seat. The man standing by the bookcase let out a light hearted chuckle as he appeared to recognize the curio.
“Let's begin then,” Johnson said. Conwell watched as he turned to the man by the book case. “Daniel, you have saved my life on two separate occasions. After the first of these times, you gave me this trinket. While it is not my place to reveal what it is to these gentlemen, I do feel that considering the circumstances it would be put to better use if returned to your possession.”
Johnson held out the box. Daniel gingerly retrieved it and placed it in his palm. He remained silent for several moments as he looked down at the box.
“It was truly a beautiful gift, thank you for sharing it with me.”
“Any time,” Daniel said. A small smile appeared on his face as he placed the box in the breast pocket of his jacket. With a nod he returned to his spot by the bookcase. Johnson then turned his attention to the bald man on the couch.
“Karlyle,” he began. Conwell felt his fists tighten as Johnson pulled a small revolver out of the box on the desk. The bald man appeared to hesitate for a few moments, but then relaxed again.“You and I started at the Foundation around the same time. You are easily one of my oldest friends and we have had more than our fair share of close calls. This is the revolver I used during that containment breach in '96. I can think of no better person to have it than you. I hope you will never find yourself in a position to use it, but if you do, I think you'll recall that this can get the job done.”
Karlyle chuckled to himself as he got up from the couch and approached the desk. Johnson handed him the pistol, which he promptly placed back down on the table before engulfing Johnson in a bear hug.
“I will treasure it forever, Zach.”
“I appreciate that.” Johnson's look of shock soon faded into a smile. Karlyle loosened his grip and pocketed the revolver before returning to his seat. Conwell watched Johnson's gaze then turn to Collins.
“Gregg,” he said as he pulled out a beautiful chessboard that Conwell recognized from his former office at Site-19. “You were my first assistant, and have since become one of my closest friends and colleagues. This is the same chess set I used to have in my office. You should recall the numerous games we played, you as black and I as white. It is my hope that it may bring you as many fond memories with your assistants as it brought me.”
Dr. Collins approached the desk slowly, refusing to make eye contact with Johnson along the way. Conwell noticed tears had begun to form behind his thick glasses. He picked up the chess set and starred down at it for a few moments before holding out a hand shake. The two men quietly shook, Dr. Collins then silently returning to his seat, his gaze locked onto the tiles of the chessboard. Conwell then turned his attention back to Johnson. He felt his hands go cold. It was now his turn.
“Dr. Johnson, I can't accept anything from you. I just can't-”
“For the love of god, Jacob, call me Zach,” Johnson sighed. “And I insist. I'd very much like you to have this.” Conwell watched curiously as Johnson placed a small silver watch on the table.
“This watch was originally a gift to me from Dr. Thompson prior to his incident. He said that, like this timepiece, I was simple, dependable, and had a slightly odd tick.” Johnson laughed to himself for a moment before he continued. “In the time I have come to know you, I feel that you exemplify these qualities more than I ever had. This is why I think you should have it.”
Conwell's mouth hung slightly open for a few moments as he thought of the words to say. Nothing came to him and he felt his mouth get dry. Eventually Conwell nodded and got to his feet. He slowly made his way to the desk before stopping to put on the watch. It felt slightly heavier than it should, and the metal was cold against his skin. Conwell then noticed that etched onto the strap was a single term: You've done a good job. - ZJ

Researcher Conwell stood alone in front of a heavy Site-19 laboratory door, a small box of his personal possessions under his arm. He reached down to the handle, but quickly snapped his hand back. Conwell let out a small nervous laugh as his gaze then turned upwards to the name written on the door: Zachary Johnson, PhD.
Conwell closed his eyes and let out a sigh. He grabbed the door handle and quickly pulled it open, sliding into the adjoining room. Upon opening his eyes, Conwell found that he was now standing in a small research lab. Spread across the various work benches were several large pieces of a black fabric, each soaking in what appeared to be a different type of chemical bath. An old man in a white lab coat sitting at a nearby workbench looked up from his notebook and smiled.
“You're early,” he said as he put down his pen. His voice was jovial, and reminded Conwell of his grandfather. The man slowly got to his feet, carefully grabbing a walnut cane at his side.
“I felt it would make a good first impression,” Conwell nervously shrugged.
“Well then, consider me impressed,” the old man chuckled. As he approached he held out a hand which Conwell quickly took. His handshake was confident and firm. “Dr. Zachary Johnson. Pleased to meet you. You're Conwell right?”
“That would be me,” Conwell replied.
“Excellent,” said Johnson as he gestured to the lab around them. “Welcome aboard. You can go ahead and set up at the desk in the back corner. I've already left you the documentation for the objects you have clearance to assist me with, so go ahead and get cracking on those.”
“Thanks,” Conwell said with a nervous smile.
When it was clear Johnson had nothing left to say, he silently made his way over to the desk. As promised a stack of files were already there, waiting to be consumed. Conwell took his seat and started reading the first document: SCP-1360.
“Oh, and Conwell,” Johnson called from over his shoulder, “I've read your personnel file. Don't ever hesitate to ask me how you're doing if you're in doubt.”
“Thanks,” Conwell chuckled. “I'll keep that in mind.”
“Don't mention it,” said Johnson, “That's what I'm here for. Also, I looked into your work on the SCPS Cassandra and out at Site-84. Very nice. You did a good job.”

Conwell watched the second hand tick by and smiled. He could see what Johnson meant. The watch did feel like it was designed for him.
“Thank you Zach,” Conwell said as he looked up. Johnson returned his smile and nodded. Conwell then returned to his seat. This time, however, it did not feel quite so unpleasant. The room became silent as once again, all attention was on Dr. Johnson.
“That's all folks,” he said as he removed the box from the desk top. “Thank you all so much for coming. I consider it an honor to have spent my time on this earth with gentlemen such as you.”
The gathering quickly died down after that. One by one, each of the guests said their goodbyes and left the house. Conwell was the last one to leave, staying behind an extra hour to sit in silence as Johnson smoked his pipe. Eventually, Conwell also made his way to the door.
“I had a good run, didn't I?” Johnson asked as he saw Conwell out. “Something to be proud of?”
“Definitely something to be proud of,” Conwell replied with a smile. “You did a good job Zach.”
“I appreciate that,” Johnson said with a smile of his own. “Farewell, Jacob.”
“Farewell, Zach.”