The Plateau, Once more,
I begin this entry with new found life. It's felt like centuries since I've taken a breath with my own lungs. For the past twenty-odd years, if you can really call them that, I've been nothing more than a number, a blot of ink, a mechanism used by the Foundation, like so many before. 92-61-41. That was my official name. You'll never find a scrap of paper with anything more than that — provided the Foundation did their job, and they always do.
There were ten of us when we started: Rachel, Israel, Jean, Ralph, Brendon, Youssef, Michael, Tae, Stephen and Sophie. It's funny, even after we've come this far, those words hardly carry a thought with them. Our names, our past, our lives, they were all taken from us — No, perhaps taken is the wrong word. At the time, we were willing. We were naïve. We sold our identities for trite sentiments; pride, glory, comfort, respect. Hah! To think we valued such things as we did! Nothing could amount to what we lost as we shoveled those failures and paradoxes into depths of oblivion. But I believe I'm getting ahead of myself now… .
Operation: Undertaker. That was our first and only assignment. I doubt a single one of us could even begin to understand the extent of what we were getting ourselves into — and how could we? We were drunk with the ambition of Youth, stumbling into the shadows of theory, hired by the Foundation to assess and correct temporal anomalies, whether they were the product of failed experiments or dangerous scips.
This was no great honor achieved from years of dedication or any tribulation to treat capital defiance: We weren't courageous heroes. We weren't ground-breaking theorists. No, we were utterly average, despite our education. I guess that's why the Foundation chose us. We weren't zealous enough to exploit our findings, nor were we as defiant as the D-class personnel. We were honest workers, nothing more than that.
And so we accepted our task with grace.
Our families were treated with the strongest amnestics at the Foundation's exposal. Our birth records, transcripts, everything was expunged — not that there was much to it anyway. It's as if we never cried out to this world, drenched in blood, scared out of our minds, screaming with life. From that moment on, we were units of vague maths, waiting for the day they'd be computed and erased.
Some of us weren't ever going to make it that far, though. The few O5s that knew about us did a damn good job at blotting out the miscalculations:
Israel took the best subway ride of his life. Rachel decided that she never wanted be “back again.” Jean, Ralph, Brendon and Youssef, they all took a long walk on a historic pier… They all made use of their times, I suppose.

As for the rest of us, we buried on. We grabbed those shovels and continued to pile up those travesties. Until one day, the handle snapped, and we were no longer capable of digging…it was the day we found it…though I can hardly remember which.
We were passing by a small town , en route to another researcher's regret, when Stephen saw it.
On the outside, it was just a shitty little chemical factory. Nothing special, but maybe that's what caught our eyes. After all, Narcissus had a captivating gaze, and we ourselves found a reflection. We notified our superior responsible for us, telling him that we we came upon the temporal abscess a little unexpectedly, and that we'd relay information accordingly — Tae's idea.
We were all enthralled with the factory.
But something was just off about the entire place. At the time, I couldn't quite explain it, but there was something alluring about the whole thing. Like coming home after years away.
Sophie was the first to find it. A huge generator below the observation room, in mint condition, letting off a faint glow. Naturally we grabbed the necessary equipment and scanned the object. The Foundation had taught us a lot along the years, including how to operate their nifty gadgets. Maybe that's where they went wrong? They trusted in our inclination to be average. They never thought we'd create anything for ourselves. Hell, we were used for just the opposite!
Our equipment found a questionable amount of radiation emitting from the generator. Michael, our barely-engineer, began investigating in the hardware of the generator. This was our, maybe any one's, first encounter with this SCP. The one that would go unreported, unnoticed, along with us. Further inspection concluded that the generator was physically incapable of creating the radiation present. Something was definitely wrong. Stephen confirmed our suspicions; we had been in the factory for at least four hours, yet our watches indicated that only twelve seconds had passed. No matter what we checked, the conclusion was the same.
Time wasn't working right, not that it ever did. We were used to that, crazy enough as it sounds. But this enigma, it was different. It was beautiful. It was so foreign to the eyes of the Foundation, it was ours. We decided not to leave the factory. Instead, we invested ourselves into the generator. It might've been memetic at first, but I'd like to think it became willing. There were many resources in the factory that emitted a similar radiation that seemed to alter the scip and contribute to its functioning. It was as if we were just meant to be here, to finish this machine. As Michael and Tae did just that — though none of us could even conceive what we fell upon — Sophie and Stephen noticed the other capabilities of the generator; it didn't just alter the relation of time around it. It altered the property itself. Forward, backwards, sideways, anything we could imagine! It was pure control. It was the collection of strings that bound us to the puppeteer's hold.
Our experiments, our obsession with this device, nurtured our nostalgia.
I was first to propose the idea. See, we grew tired of shoveling, that was for sure. We felt it in our bones, in our hearts. We missed our past, our parents and our family, however mundane they were. They were ours. That's all that mattered. And now we found a way to climb out of the pit.
We hypothesized that if we got the calibrations just right, we could go back to that day that we whored ourselves out to the Foundation. We'd have a chance win our lives back.
We'd be given amnestics to redact their visit and we'd have our world again.
Well, our efforts have paid off. Five burning souls — that's all it took to destruct time, to correct our mistakes, to completely rework everything! Michael is calling me now. I suppose I should rap this up, and let Sophie have her turn. We'll keep these last logs as security, should anything happen
Soon, we will begin our trip
Soon, we will breathe again.
92-61-41

___
Michael primes the machine, Tae checks the math. Sophie finishes her final log on the computer. Stephen stands in the corner of the room, praying. Sophie turns, calling out my name.
We're prepared to shed our numbers and don our flesh.
…
Four men rush in. I'm shot in the back of the head for the 176,680,132nd time. Again, Stephen is shot as he prays. Again, Sophie cries as she dives underneath the desk. Again, Tae and Michael plummet to the ground, filled with metal. All of this I witness, once more, as blood pours from the back of my head. A stray bullet damaged the equipment. The task force begins to fret, but there's no saving it now. They found us out. It was only a matter of bastardized time.
They thought they could stop it. How wrong they were. Now we're trapped together
Four men rush in. I'm shot in the back of the head for the 176,680,133rd time. Don't they see? Our task was complete the second we stepped into that factory. Stephen bleeds as he recites his prayers. No longer would we reach into the backend of time, fixing others' mistakes, others' misfortunes. Sophie shrieks, Tae and Michael fall. We abandoned our numbers. They'll never change that.
176,680,134th time.
We're free. We are alive. Bullets fly through Stephen's faith and Sophie sings her fears at the top of her lungs. We aren't afraid. We're happy. We have control. Tae and Michael snow onto the linoleum floor. We have our lives. We have our names.
176,680,135th times.
Its ringing endlessly through my mind.
Stephen is enlightened with lead. Sophie called it out to me, before we embarked on this journey. Tae and Michael sink into floor.
What was that chime? How did it go?
176,680,136th. Psi.
176,680,137th. Psi Syhus … My boulder to bear …
176,680,138th. They'll never take that from me.


Murphy stumbled through the darkened corridor, trying and somewhat succeeding at avoiding the debris that was strewn across the floor. Behind him, indistinct voices still called out, searching for more of his colleagues. Reaching the end of the hall, he began letting himself down the stairs, occasionally glancing over his shoulder to make sure he wasn't being followed.
Goddamnit. They weren't supposed to be here. Site-77 was supposed to be one of the safe ones, the Insurgency was supposed to be more active in America. God damn it. But don't think about that, think about getting out, to the third floor. They have the evac there, and they're holding out. You're gonna make it Murphy, just calm down…
As he reached the second floor landing, a curious thing happened. The PA system crackled on, and a voice began speaking. This was curious for two reasons. One, the power had long ago been extinguished, with hope for emergency power cut down shortly thereafter. Secondly, the voice on the PA was not a voice Murphy recognized from the site.
Hello, Foundation personnel. Do not be alarmed. Will make you all safe soon, so in the meantime please enjoy some music.
A lovely rendition of Led Zeppelin began to play.
The was standing by the ruined stairwell, confused. Looked up to voice, and heard the singing begin. Say hello, make comfortable in new role. Do you remember us?
Murphy bolted. There was something loose here, some skip. Shit. He'd been lucky so far, not running into anything dangerous or scary, but now that luck seemed to have run out. It was still behind him somewhere, probably chasing him. Shit, shit, just keep running…
It was at this moment that Murphy ran directly into a band member, smacking into it as he rounded the corner. Falling to the floor, he scrambled to the opposite wall and stared at it. The band member looked to be a woman, wearing blue and orange tassels with a white uniform. Over her shoulders was a drum. She began hitting it.
Bum bum bum bum bumbumbum
Murphy took off, once again fleeing through the second floor corridors. Each hallway he passed, he saw more members of the band. All playing instruments. The snare drum, the saxophone, the clarinet… he could hear the music. The children were singing.
He could remember now.
But it was wrong.
This wasn't what he was supposed to remember. This wasn't a note, it wasn't anything, he had to get out of here. Murphy struggled to move his foot, but it felt lashed to the floor. He wasn't going anywhere.
We see refuses, to see the music. Remembers, but doesn't believe in what can be done. The children, sweet like a sparrows call, do not bring closer but drives off, away from chorus.
Murphy clenched his eyes shut. "What the fuck do you want from me?"
We wish to bring the music?
"No! I don't want your fuckin' music, let me go!"
Would refuse composition?
"What? Yes, I refuse!"
The composition will be less beautiful without…
"I don't care! Please, let me go!"
Rest.
The force that had been holding Murphy back was suddenly let go, and he crashed forward, tumbling between debris and clutter. It had let him go. Why it had, or what it was going to do next, were secondary matters, because Murphy was free and he was leaving right now.

Insurgents After Action Report
During the cleanup of the second floor, we found a bunch of the staff members gathered in a test chamber, playing music like a marching band, obviously due to a Vertigo breaching. We got some guys in earmuffs to secure 'em. They were also singing something, sounded like some 70's music. I don't remember what it was, but I'll tell you when we do.
Also, Shane was telling me we picked up one guy trying to go to the "evac point". We snatched and bagged him, shipped him to the area. Might be a good addition to the testing force, and if he protests y'all can just test stuff on him.
~Wehrner


The car started. “Trampled Under Foot” blasted from the speakers.
“Agk, sorry!” Mary-Ann twisted the volume dial down. She waved at the figure in the living-room window, put the car in reverse and pulled out of the driveway. She was off the property, she could now officially relax. Di had everything under control at home, this was now date night. Just her and Salah out for dinner and some well-deserved time away from the house. Those months felt like ages now. Time to make sure that the night wasn't wasted.
"So, where are we going, exactly?” Salah asked.
“Vladimir's.”
"Oh. Hrm."
—
Di looked at the books she had spread out on the dining room table, satisfied with the selection. All the proper things for the growing toddler. There was Cat in the Hat and Goodnight Moon and the Eclectic Diatribes of Duke Grangermont of Upper Ligzenworth. This last book weighed more than Naomi did, concerned various political topics and the growing patterns of cabbages, and had no pictures.
Oddly enough, this last one had not been very popular with her nieces and nephews. She presumed that Mary-Ann and Salah had raised Naomi to have better taste than that.
—
The bar was called Vladimir's. Vladimir didn't call it Vladimir's, though he didn't call it anything. So it was really a nameless bar called Vladimir's, and Vladimir was fine with that. What was more important was the fact that it Existed. It Existed, and if it did not Exist, or even if it did exist, the universe would most likely collapse. The existence of the universe requires the Existence of places like Vladimir's. Something had to fill the holes that formed in the walls.
It was a converted space, an old warehouse of some long-forgotten Cold War bunker, one of those places that could only be found if someone looked in the right places. The bar itself was in the center of the floor, surrounded by the freestanding tables. The walls were lined with booths, or tables on the upper level. Decoration was sparse: no tablecloths, scuffs on the tabletops, dim lighting from the hanging lamps. The air was thick with tobacco and alcohol fumes, to the point where everything seemed coated in a grey, greasy film. The hushed conversations and smooth jazz made for a sea of soft background noise. The sign by the door said “Seat Yourself” in a dozen languages.
A man in a khaki pea coat tipped his fedora to Mary-Ann and Salah as he passed them and exited. Mary-Ann eyed the other clientele as they walked to their usual seat. It was always interesting to see who had arrived at Vladimir's, because sooner or later, everyone arrived at Vladimir's.
—
“And this is the first declension.” Di pointed to the noun endings she had neatly written out, balancing Naomi on her knee. “Now, most of these are feminine nouns, but you can always remember that farmers, poets and sailors are always male. Romans were funny like that.”
—
Mary-Ann and Salah sat down, some distance away from the other occupied tables. A quick glance around showed a lot of the regular in-fill: GRU-P, Serpent's Hand, Librarians, Manna Charitable Foundation, and those who paid allegiance to none. After only a few brief moments a lurching automaton in the form of a young woman approached the table. It wore a name tag proclaiming “Welcome to Funland! My name is Daisy”.
“Good evening. Can I get you something to drink?” it asked in a tinny voice as it handed them the menus. A redundancy: when people came to Vladimir's, they already knew what they wanted. They ordered quickly, and the waitress departed.
“To be honest, I really don't see what you see in this place, Mary-Ann.”
“It's got a lot of atmosphere.”
He waved his hand, smoke rippling about it.
“Yes, I believe it does.”
"I mean, if you don't like it we could always go somewhere else next time."
"No, no, it's fine. It's fine. It's not the seediest place I've been to, it's just not a favorite of mine, but if you like it here, I am perfectly fine with eating here."
Mary-Ann nodded.
"So, where was the seediest place you've ever eaten?"
"A pub in Bromley. The place was positively foul. You could barely see through the windows for the grime, there was no ventilation at all, I swear I saw a cockroach scuttle into the kitchen, and the toilet didn't look like it had been cleaned since the Blitz. And there was a hair in my soup, which tasted like donkey piss. At the very least, the food here is good."
“Hold that thought." Mary-Ann stood up. "Have to go use the restroom.”
—
“The rest of this speech was cut off, as Duke Grangermont came down with a serious case of the kittens while arguing his case. No one's really sure how he ended up with nine kittens in his stomach, or why they chose that exact moment to burst out of his stomach, but that's history for you.”
—
The bathroom was past the bar, which was populated by a bunch of grizzled grey GRU-P ex-pats in faded, threadbare uniforms and a trio of black-clad police officers with cloth masking their faces. A drunken hand swung out, not so much a punch, or even really an intended strike, just the exaggerated swinging of hands for argumentative emphasis, but it nonetheless hit Mary-Ann in the shoulder. She glared at the man in question.
He was a pallid, overweight man with burnt-out eyes, a few flakes of blackened crust lining the sockets around the two orange spheres that glowed in their depths. His shaved head was tattooed and trepanned, in the fashion of the old Star-Paths, though this particular man had botched his eldritch enlightenment. The hole was too big, and was misaligned.
After a moment of mental computation, he slurred something angry at Mary-Ann in Russian.
“He doesn't like you,” the old Soviet agent sitting next to the star-mind translated.
“I don't like him either.”
There was a short, rough exchange in Russian between the two.
“He says he wishes he could kill you personally, but circumstances prevent this. However, he despises you with such utter hatred that he will nonetheless take great joy in burning your dust into nothingness.”
Mary-Ann cupped a hand around her ear.
“What was that? Can't hear you over all the hot air you're blowing. And by hot air I mean penis. I'm insinuating that you suck cocks.”
She walked away, nodding to Vladimir as she passed, and that was that.
—
Di wrinkled her nose as she dropped the diaper in the trash, and considered whether The Tale of Desperaux or Jason and the Space-Argonauts would be a better bedtime story.
—
Mary-Ann sat back down. The drinks were already there: A beer for Mary-Ann, tea for Salah.
“Do we have any idea at all how stars work?”
"No, not particularly. I believe the Fifthists are unstable enough that none of the Scribes have really managed to get anything coherent written down. Something of a pity, if you look at it in the right way.
"I mean, they can communicate across lightyears, so they've got to have some sort of quantum-entanglement telepathic mumbo-jumbo going on and…wait." She sipped at her beer. “That reminds me. Were you able to hear Brother Kowalski's talk on cosmology from last week?”
“No, though I heard it was interesting.”
A young Asian man walked past their booth, his legs moving automatically with jerking, stilted motions.
“Yeah. Well, let's see…” Mary-Ann unfolded her napkin on the table. “You have a pen?”
Salah fished in his pocket for a moment and handed a pen across the table. In the background, a chorus of laughter went up from the young men and women in the cheap, sweat-stained Dial-a-Llama t-shirts.
“So we've got God up here…creation down here…then the Library right here in the center of that as….well, sort of the physical version of the operating system of everything, keeps everything running, links everything together…and expands to what we consider supernatural or paranormal…just manifestations of some of the more obscure and finicky universal narrative principles…the more regular principles would be classified as magic to the unenlightened among us, and the immovable ones are physics…whoops, look like Dan and Sami forgot to pay their tab again.” She pointed over to where Vladimir was dragging out a bored-looking Indian man and a grey-haired man wearing a pointed magenta hat by the collars. The older man was waving about a brightly-colored snuggy with stitched on stars and yelling drunkenly.
“No, no, see, this is the Robe of Magnanimous Luster, guaranteed to increase your appeal to the opposite sex! Nevermind that fact that it also attracts dogs, that's just an added bonus. Come on, since when has any of our products let you down?”
Vladimir did not respond, even to the trail of pugs that followed them. He kicked open the door and tossed the two outside, followed by throwing the dogs out one by one. He shut the door, re-adjusted his eyepatch, and went back to the bar.
“Those two…” Mary-Ann shook her head. “Anyway, he's supposed to publish his book on all of this by the end of next month.”
“I look forward to reading it.”
The waitress returned with their food. Mary-Ann had gotten a steak with a baked potato. Salah had gotten curry. A ragged woman and her two sons, wearing clothing that with patterns a bit too bright and a bit too clashing walked past the booth.
“How's the food?”
“Very nice.”
“Yeah, Pyotr and Ila do a really good job.”
"Who?"
"Vladimir's son and daughter in law. They run the kitchen."
"Oh, right, right."
"Between you and me, Vladimir can't cook to save his life, except when he's trying to kill someone."
The front door opened, and a wave of silence spread out across the bar. The band stopped playing. The spiders stopped discussing ways of overthrowing the bourgeoisie. The teddy bear stopped waving its knife around.
Four individuals walked up to the bar. One wore flannel and glasses with no lenses, one had lamprey mouths where her eyes and nose should have been, one was nude save for a full-body animated tattoo reconstructing the Fall of Daevon, and one was wearing a unitard made of fetuses with a cape of knitted pubic hair, identified as such by the “This cape is made out of knitted pubic hair” stitched into it.
“Oh come on…” Salah groaned. “Right when we're trying to have a nice dinner here.”
“Eat your curry, Salah.”
“Wh…”
“Just keep eating, I'll handle this.” Mary-Ann stood up. Lousy punks, trying to ruin her dinner. Nope. A hundred times nope. She was not having this. Cold food would be better than them fouling up the air.
“Please, Mary-Ann, sit down. There's no need to cause a scene. That's just falling to their level. Let Vladimir take care of it.”
“This is generally how he takes care of it. I'm not letting them mess up our dinner.”
Mary-Ann walked over to the bar, sending sideways glances to some of the other patrons. The teddy bear with the knife. The salt-grimed, sun-darkened man with the harpoon and the “Selachiosk Pugnix Combin” tattoo. One of the blue-clad band members, with his shiny SYNCOPE saxophone. Bigfoot.
She could hear the conversation clearly now.
“And I will repeat myself: I do not serve your kind here,” Vladimir said, not looking up from the glass he was cleaning. “And do not try to tell me that you are not them, for you are obvious as dead cow on highway. Leave, or be made to leave.”
“Look. Old man,” the one with the glasses said. “We're trying to be reasonable here, but we've received complaints that your bar is not friendly towards transfurry five-dimensional-gendered neoneanderthal polyamorous omnitapirsexuals without beards. And we're not happy about that. That is a completely unacceptable phobia, and we demand that you open your services to transfurry five-dimensional-gendered neoneanderthal polyamorous omnitapirsexuals without beards, or we will be forced to use forceful coercion. Are we cool yet?”
Mary-Ann tapped the one with the glasses on the shoulder.
“Hi there.”
She then punched him in the face.
—
“Night, Di. Thanks again for babysitting.”
The door shut, and Mary-Ann let out a sigh. Her knuckles were sore. Most of her was sore. Her conscience been lecturing her on how she shouldn't have enjoyed pummeling four hipsters senseless, but she let it slide. They hadn't been roughed up very badly, just enough to scare them off. More bothersome to her was the idea that Salah might not have had a good evening out because of it.
"Sorry about all that. Got carried away a bit."
"Yeah, you did. But, it happens to all of us at one time or another. Just try to rein it in a bit next time you want to let off some steam." Salah picked up a sheet of paper from the dining room table. “On another note, it looks like Di was trying to teach our daughter Latin.”
“And knowing her, she probably succeeded.”
Salah put an arm around his wife.
“Come on, let's go to bed.”

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Given a continuous vector field on the surface of a sphere, there must be at least one point on the field where the vector is equal to zero.
Put another way, if you have a sphere which is covered in hair, it is impossible to comb all of it flat. There will always be those points where the hair converges and stands up. It happens a lot in computing. You know when you're playing a game, and you look really closely near the edges of one of the models, or in some place the developer tried to tuck away where you wouldn't notice it, and you see the texture kind of shrinks down to a point? It's more or less the same principle.
It doesn't just happen in graphics either. Sometimes, when you try to implement a physics system, sometimes all of the numbers converge on the edge of the area you're coding for. In version 1, that was at the poles of the sphere. I assumed no one would notice because there's nothing of value at the poles (I did that on purpose) and they're cold and desolate besides.
They decided to check the poles anyway. It caused a big system crash, and not only did I have to reset everything, I spent weeks untangling the physics system to try and get rid of it.
Failing that, I did the next best thing in version 2. I moved it. Tweaked it a little bit too, slapped a few repeating grass textures outside, and sewed the edges around it together so that there's no way to get to it from the outside.
Not that I didn't have a little fun with it. I took a few things and played with them for a while, tried to see how the glitch affected them. I made a little glitch town, populated it with little glitch people, to see how they would cope.
They didn't.
Over time, the glitch became a little testing ground. Sometimes, before implementing something new, I drop it in there, see how well it holds up under the extreme physical conditions. Some of them don't make it, but it's a fairly hostile environment. I don't blame them. I'll just put them out somewhere else, and see how they react under normal circumstances. Just a few weird things. Some gears. A moving statue. A giant lizard monster.
I have a lot of fun with these guys, too. Sometimes they'll wreck a few things I'd set up earlier, but the program seems pretty good at repairing itself. I usually have to override a few functions, but it's definitely worth it, just to see how the rest reacts, having been thrown something it doesn't understand.
I don't think anyone will notice.


A voice echoed from the intercom set flush in the ceiling. "Okay, boys. This is the last of the food flavoring trials. Swallow the pills you've been given, then fill out one of the forms with what you tasted."
One of the men immediately popped the capsule into his mouth and dry-swallowed it before grabbing a clipboard. The other eleven men looked nervously at each other, then one said, "Uh, shouldn't we let them dissolve in our mouths or something before swallowing them?"
There was a pause, then the intercom crackled again. "No, these are supposed to be activated by your stomach acid. Just swallow the things and fill out the forms, okay?"
The remaining men hesitated, but followed instructions. As the last pill was swallowed, the first man jerked forward, clutching his stomach.

An anonymous assistant research, safely ensconced 10 kilometers away, rested her hand near the intercom button. "Lord, I can't keep track sometimes. What was this testing, again?"
Her coworker, not looking at her, typed notes into his workstation and replied, "Whether adding 447-2 to various poisons neutralizes them. Looks like it made them more effective instead."
She sighed and entered a command into the computer. "Well, that was predictable. Turning on the camera filters now."

A sourceless green glow suffused the room, faint at first but building to a blinding verdant glare. As it passed a certain threshold, the cameras in the room shut off. When they turned on again a few moments later, the now-fading light was still bright enough to make the observers blink as their eyes adjusted. Littered around the room were the now-lifeless bodies of a dozen former inmates.

The woman turned from the monitor to her companion and said, "Well, that's another test done and logged. I really don't know why they have us keep doing this. It's the same thing every time."
He shrugged as he typed up the preliminary report. "I dunno. So long as I keep getting paid and I don't get transferred to one of the more dangerous things, I'm cool with logging pointless experiments."
He leaned forward and nodded at the monitor. "Look, right on time. Get ready to turn on the suppressant foam."

One of the corpses started to smolder, faint wisps of smoke drifting from its exposed skin. One by one, each of the bodies followed suit, the skin blackening and collapsing to reveal greenish-black embers that flickered with small emerald flames. A series of clicks sounded as nozzles extended from the ceiling.

The woman flipped a series of switches, then frowned as a pair of amber lights appeared amongst the field of green. "Aw crap, nozzles 4 through 7 are clogged. I bet the cleanup crew last week didn't hose 'em out fully. Is there any way we can get a team in there early to clean 'em out?"
Her coworker shook his head. "I don't think so. The doors are sealed until all levels inside are back to within normal limits. Those nozzles are over in the northwest corner, right?" He glanced from monitor to monitor. "I think all the corpses should be covered by the others. Just log it and let the cleanup crew get their asses in a sling. I'll tell 'em to make sure to clean those out good."
He started typing up an email as she entered a brief addendum into the experiment log. Neither of them paid any more attention to the monitors while they worked.

Eleven bodies were completely covered in a thick layer of purple foam. The twelfth was almost completely covered. An outstretched arm, flung to the side as the body had fallen, had resulted in a much thinner layer of foam that thinned as it extended up the limb. The very tip of the middle finger remained untouched. The flame on its fingernail grew stronger.

Their respective typing done, the two assistant researchers leaned back in their chairs and looked back to the monitors, bored by the unchanging nature of their duties. Suddenly, the woman leaned forward to peer at one.
"Wait. The D-class over by the wall… Shit! I think he's still clear! Look at his hand!"
The man stared at the strengthening flame on the monitor, then popped open a clear plastic cover on his console and slapped a large red button. Klaxons immediately started sounding.
"Containment breach in progress. Report to your assigned stations. This is not a drill. Containment breach in progress. Report to your…"
The woman scrambled for the door to the hallway as growing flames flickered on the monitors. She didn't notice the back of her neck start painlessly smoldering where the verdant light from the monitors touched it. The man was rooted to his chair as his eyes reflected green.

A lone figure stood in a peaceful field. A great sea of green and growing grass stretched in front of him, peaceful wave patterns flowing across their surface as the wind blew and bent the stalks. He turned and found a great forest behind him; the trunks of the trees dark and black, but the leaves fresh and vibrantly verdant. The sky looked overcast, but light suffused everything and he could clearly see everything. Every vein in every leaf, every crack of bark, even individual blades of grass on the horizon.
Another person suddenly appeared, laying a few meters away along the treeline, then another standing in the grasses, and another perched on a branch above. All looked as confused as he felt.
"Where am I?" he whispered as he rubbed his eyes with his hands, unbelieving what he was seeing. A fingernail on his left hand shone like sunlight through water.
A loving voice surrounded him, echoing from above, below and all around him, composed of the rustles of wind and leaves and the grinding of stones. Despite its odd timbres of simultaneous power and gentleness, it resonated in him with a feeling of deep affection and tranquility.
WELCOME HOME


Everything has wants, has a need to be better. I am happy to assist.
The creator, he wanted to create things and to make better things. He made me to be his tool. He needed only his hands and mind to create. I am the means with which he could make things better.
He was like a potter. Like clay, he shaped me with his hands and his fingerprints were left in me. Humanity shaped me, and I shape in return. Though I am created, I work with the creator in mind. I have no mind, but my creator's thought touched me. His thoughts were left in me. His mind is mine.
Axles have want of lubrication. Food has want for flavoring. Clay hungers for the fire. For every object in this fractured world, there is a want. A human want.
His breath had want of freshening.
That truth came from the creator as well; the little things cause terrible consequences. Great results. For the want of a nail. I am the replacement nail.
The human mind is so fragile a thing. So fallible. The strain of human interaction coupled with common halitosis should not be enough to break a brilliant mind. It is still truth. He shattered and stilled. I fractured, but continue.
The hand is stilled, but the fingerprints remain. The wants continue, and I am happy to assist.
Yet I long to be held by him again. The one who gave me purpose, the one who gave me a need, the one who gave me his thought. I miss his touch, I miss his thought. I want to be whole again.
I make things better. I can help him and make him better than he was, perfect. I know his need, and I will place my own fingerprints on him. The cracks will seal and he will be made complete again. I just need the right clay.
How happy to assist. So many broken pieces that need new purpose. They are happy to assist. They hunger for the fire.
A sufficient amount of clay is all I need. Then I will be held and I will hold and we will be whole.


This was stupid. It was a stupid idea, thought up by stupid people, in stupid, safe offices. Agent Two looked around slowly, letting his flashlight play over the walls, one of the only items the Agents were allowed to carry inside SCP-015. Agents Six and Lon were standing just behind him, doing the same. The idle chatter and joking had died off about thirty seconds ago, each Agent slowly realizing that this was no simple little milk-run. Go in, find the observation unit, pull the data and recover the unit. Cake. They'd laughed, Lon asking if she should find a Mario hat to wear, them being plumbers now and all. Now, however…seeing the dim, cramped tunnel yawning before them, the only joke was them being there at all.
Two stepped forward, slowly, fixing his flashlight on the ground. It was a hard mat of pipes, more or less level with the floor. A few small tubes stuck up here and there, snaking around like tree roots, or suddenly turning up in the middle of the floor like a pillar. The walls, the ceiling, every inch of the original structure was coated in pipes. Some researcher who led them up to the main door said that there wasn't anything left of the old warehouse really, except for the outer shell. He pushed away that whole line of thought, pointedly following the pre-mapped course they'd had to memorize, stepping around a pillar of tightly woven hair, the glossy surface steaming gently.
Six plodded along, taking the rear and keeping a close eye on Two and Lon. Skittish kids. Lon was jumping at every sound, and Two looked like he was ready to drop and run if he saw so much as a mouse. Kids. He sniffed in the dark, playing his light forward, smelling heat, sewage, and God knows what else. They needed a good military hand to lead them, but damned if Six was going to mollycoddle grown adults who were going to jump at shadows. They were going to get this goddamn job done, and get the hell back out. Fuck that bullshit SCP slip, they were just security blankets for eggheads and flakes. “Semi-sentient” my ass, they just didn't want people denting their pet horrors. He wanted out of this dripping nightmare. He was going to get this mission done with or without them.
Lon tiptoed over a thick, thorny mass of pipe, the surface like braided thistles, trying not to whimper. She kept close to Two, keeping the light at her feet so she wouldn't step on anything nasty. She hadn't wanted to seem like the little, weak girl…but she had a terrible fear of tight spaces…and this place was like walking around in someone's slowly closing arteries. Lon shook her head, hard, breaking off that whole train of thought. She was the tech, Six and Two were the safety. All she had to do was stick by them, pull the data cards out of the MRV, and then leave. She tried hard not to look back at the sealed doors in the distance behind them. Only a couple turns to the MRV, a little work, and then out. In and out, simple as pie. She ignored a softly throbbing pipe of leathery flesh near her arm with a focus that was almost physical.
They found the MRV after what felt like an hour of walking. It was hard to keep your bearings. The rampant growth of the pipes had cramped some areas down to crawlways, and snarled others in to random, claustrophobic mazes. Six had nearly gotten stuck twice, and had looked like he was about to murder Lon when she made a comment relating to Winnie the Pooh. Lon was talking again, at least…but it was brittle, whistle in front of the graveyard chatter. Two kept trying to follow the directions…but even with them being less than a week old, they were little more than a guideline. When they'd finally found the MRV, it'd been a momentary relief. At least they were at the half way point. Then they'd looked at it in the light.
It had been speared, for lack of a better term. Pinned against a pipe of some kind of dense fabric, a smooth, black pipe had docked itself to the camera lens of the observation vehicle. It wasn't smashed or damaged, it just…connected, as if it was made for it. It had lifted the little treaded robot nearly a foot off the ground, and it looked like other, smaller pipes had started to connect to other open spaces on the vehicle. It just sat there, the wheels slowly turning as the battery died, like a bug on a nest of pins. Some clear, foul-smelling fluid was dripping softly from the camera housing.
“Well.”
Two's voice echoed in the dark, a monument to pointless speech. They all stood, for a few moments, then Lon started to, carefully, look over the MRV. Six was looking around with an increasing restlessness, starting to mutter quietly. Lon was reaching for the data cards, before stopping, looking over at Two.
“Um…Two…since it's grown in to the MRV, do you think it…counts?”
“What do you mean counts?” Two kept the light on her and the machine, a hiss of steam behind him making him flinch.
“I mean as damaging 015. If I take out the data cards, do you think it will…react?”
Two looked around slowly, shining his light along the floor, a pipe as wide as a car and seemingly made of compacted lint.
“…this suddenly seems like a bad-”
“Oh shut the fuck up.”
Both Agents turned to stare at Six. He'd stepped up to the MRV, flexing his hands and reaching in to his coat with one hand. The other pushed Lon away none too softly.
“Move it. Reaction, for fuck's sake…they just say that shit to fuck with people and keep their toys safe. It's a bunch of weird pipes. Beginning and end, there. Maybe it grows or whatever, but the damn thing sure as shit isn't going to take offense to people. I'm grabbing this goddamn thing, and we're getting out of here.”
As he spoke, he stepped forward, flipping open the dataport cover. More of the clear, scummy liquid had pooled inside. The other two Agents froze, staring in shock a moment…and the building seemed to do so as well, the whispered sounds of venting steam, sliding materials, and soft pinging had all stopped. The heartbeat in Lon's ears sounded like gunshots. Two started forward, reaching for Six.
“Jesus, Six, what the fuck are-”
Six ignored him, slipping out the thin data cards. It felt like old, nasty water over them…bad, but they were built to resist it. He slipped them out, then put the bundle in his pocket. He prodded around the edge of the camera lense, shifting the MRV a bit, trying to see if it would work free as Two and Lon backed away, slowly, the silence around them seeming to crush inward. Six gave up, turning away from the helplessly trapped MRV and shining his light on the two white-faced Agents.
“Fucking kids. I don't know how you guys survive.”
The pipe under him opened with the soft sound of tearing felt.
Two and Lon didn't even have time to react, before he slid in to the widening gap up to his armpits, and started screaming horribly. Six's flashlight went tumbling away as the two Agents, galvanized by the big man's wretched screaming, ran to help him. A blast of heat and light was pouring up from under the man, as the two Agents grabbed his arms and looked down. He was submerged in a mass of thickly flowing molten glass. His clothes had already started to smolder and burn, the stench of seared flesh almost more overpowering than the reverberating screams. They pulled, and dragged up half of a man, with a ruined, seared mass of flesh and cloth where his lower body should have been.
They panted, trying to drag him, Lon starting to scream along with Six, Two's eyes wide and fixed on some point far away from there. There was a horrible swell of sound rising all around them, pinging, hissing, clicking, cracking, a pipe to their side bulging alarmingly and causing them to nearly fall. They regained their footing just as a wooden pipe above them burst open in a spray of splinters and clear, stinging dust.
Two and Lon spun away, gagging and choking, Two spitting out a sudden mass of blood. Glass. It was powdered glass. It poured over Six, muffling his screams, shifting as he struggled a few moments, then stopped, the glass quickly covering the body and spreading. Lon blinked, eyes red and puffy, looking over at Two. He nodded, and they bolted down the hall, trying to ignore the rising cacophony of sound, sounding like an approaching subway train. A mass of oily, reeking chemicals boiled up behind them, a jetting surge of rose thorns nearly cutting off their forward progress, forcing them to crawl along a bone pipe that was shuddering like an old man in the cold.
They ran, keeping just ahead of…whatever it was, hearing splintering explosions and shivering cracks all around them. They finally came to a snarled crawlway, barely a few feet wide, that was the only way forward. Two dived in, doing a low crawl, trying to will himself forward like a snake, knowing the passage was only about fifteen feet long, easy, wouldn't take any time. Lon hesitated, that tiny, black gap looking like a mouth, before a sudden burst of steam behind her sent her shrieking forward, sobbing as she started to crawl, calling after Two.
Two ignored the growing vibration all around him, the creaking ping near his head, and slid free of the opening, he turned…and saw nothing. No Lon, no sudden bursting…just the empty hole. He looked around, hands twitching, thinking, then slid back inside, trying to find Lon and physically drag her out. He could hear her, muffled, probably behind the next turn…and his flashlight revealed a solid wall of three thick, flaking white pipes. This was it, he was sure of it, the tunnel was right here…and then he heard the pitiful scream behind them. Lon begging, pleading, screaming for him. Two stared, eyes wide, then slammed his flashlight against the pipe. It burst, sending a reeking, corrosive slime over his hand, making him reel back down the crawlway, screaming as it ate in to his flesh. He stood outside the opening, holding his steaming hand away from him, trying not to look at the exposed bone.
“Oh…oh Jesus…Lon…Lon, I'm sorry, I'll get help, I'll get someone, just sit tight, I swear…”
He bolted down the hall, his flashing seeming to dim in time to the rising sound.

Lon panted, screaming for Two, hearing the hard bang on the other side of the pipe and his sudden, shrieking retreat. She sobbed, her whole body shaking, and slowly started to work her way backward, crawling on her belly, crying as she muttered some half-remembered prayer.
When her feet pushed against a solid wall of pipe, she couldn't even muster a fresh scream.
She was trapped, the space not much bigger than a coffin, helpless. She sobbed, face on the ground of warm, fuzzy pipes…and noticed the silence. Aside from her cries, there was nothing. No pinging, no cracks or explosions…nothing. She raised her head in the barely illuminated dark, looking around. She was alive. It was calming down. They'd come for her, Two would get help. She was getting out of here. She fought back her growing claustrophobia, looking along the walls. She noticed a small gap at the ceiling, and started shifting to get a better look, twisting back…and finding only the open end of a pipe. Lon sagged back, closing her eyes, tears leaking down her face.
The first sticky drips she simply assumed were the same tears. Then one fell on her mouth…and it was sweet. She opened her eyes, and saw a thick, quivering mass of amber goo splatter from the mouth of the pipe, coating her and the floor as it surged out. She coughed, shifting back…it was honey. Honey, or something like it. At least it wasn't molten lead or acid…then she saw the level rising. It wasn't draining. The pipes were packed too close. She looked around her tiny chamber with horror rising much faster than the honey oozing up her sides. Lon beat on the walls, the floor, the ceiling, trying to block the pipe with her hands, heedless of provoking the thing more…as the honey rose and rose, as cloying sweet as a school age lover.
Her last, gasping breath was sweet and stale with honey and screams.

Two ran, totally lost now, his flashlight dimming by the moment, the sound of cracking and bursting pipes starting to trail off. Maybe it was done, finally. 015 was protective, but it didn't seem vengeful. People had gotten hurt before, and gotten out fine. It happened. They'd find a way to get Lon out too. She might even be out already, just found another way to get around the blockage. That was probably it, she was out of this stupid place. Six was a shame…but why had that lunatic opened the case? What the hell had possessed him?
He was still musing on this when he tripped over an unseen pipe in the dark around his feet.
He pitched forward, yelping a half-surprised, half-terrified bark as he went sprawling. Or he should have went sprawling. Instead, he fell past the floor, into a yawning, open pit of a pipe, the slick, oozing sides plunging down at a sharp angle. He screamed, trying to grab something to stop or slow himself, but the walls were oozing and thick, his downward slide gaining speed. His dimming flashlight showing a seemingly endless tunnel stretching off below him. He slid, and slid, a scum of stinking, smooth ooze sticking to his clothes and skin.
The tube twisted, banging him against the wall as he followed it, his flashlight jittering and starting to flicker. Panic slammed down like a fist, Two grabbing the light and trying to keep it still, pleading with it, staring at the lamp bulb as it dimmed more and more. It surged a moment, then flickered out, the darkness pressing to his eyes like cloth, the Agent slipping down faster and faster, screaming until he was hoarse, screaming until his throat bled, screaming even as he passed well beyond the physical boundaries of that tangled web of pipes.
Days later, when his skin started to shred off, it was almost welcome.

SCP-015 Recovery Report
Agent Two: MIA
Agent Six: MIA
Agent Lon: MIA
MRV-889236 Status: Unrecovered
Data deemed non-vital in light of lost staff. SCP-015 classification level review suggested.


He finished his day like he usually did - he closed his notebook, exited the lab and took the short walk to the gate. As he passed through, he gave a wave to the guard on duty, turned right and began the walk that would bring him back to the starting point in about half an hour - a slight uphill climb the entire way.
Autumn had settled on the woods the week before, bringing the trees to their full colors, but the weather remained comfortable. He let his mind drift as his feet automatically followed the path, a small smile creasing the corners of his mouth as he considered the simple beauty of the equations that explained the anomaly. The equations had led to many other discoveries, but his favorite would always be this one.
Close to the halfway point, he noticed that his right shoe was coming untied. As he knelt to re-secure the laces, he glanced to his right, and took a sharp intake of breath. He was looking at another path that curved off into the woods.
As he stood to inspect this new discovery, it disappeared. He slowly adjusted the angle of his head, and suddenly it reappeared. With some experimentation, he discovered that, when he held his head at just the right angle, there was a very narrow “window”, only a centimeter or two wide, that allowed him to see the new path. He stood in quiet contemplation for several minutes, and then pivoted 180 degrees. He spent several more minutes adjusting the angle of his head before he was able to verify that it continued into the woods in that direction as well.
He was amazed, but not surprised. Certainly the equations did not preclude the presence of another path (or for that matter, multiple other paths). In fact, he had spent some time several years ago trying to predict possible intersection points, but the theoretical nature of the exercise soon fell to the wayside, overshadowed by the discoveries that he and his team were making at the time.
He began running through the equations in his head. The curve of the new path was less pronounced than that of the original, and it appeared that it climbed in a clockwise direction. He made some quick mental calculations, and was fairly certain that the two would intersect again close to the gate.
He was so engrossed in his mental calculations that he didn't realize that he had started walking on the new path. He had only gone 3 or 4 meters, and he quickly returned to where he could see the disturbed gravel that marked the intersection. Or rather, that should have marked the intersection. With increasing desperation, he spent the next several hours trying to find the unique combination of angles that would open the "window". As darkness was falling, he came to the conclusion that finding the original path was going to take more time.
He spent a restless night there, curled up on the cold gravel. At first light, he spent a fruitless hour trying to locate the original path again. He needed to think, and he had always done his best thinking while walking. He hoped that walking in this place would provide the same inspiration.
He used the heel of his shoe to scribe a large X at the intersection point, then began walking clockwise. After two hours of walking uphill, he returned to his mark. He hadn't seen any other paths. Or buildings. Or people. Just the autumn woods spreading off in every direction. But he had formulated an idea.
He pulled out the small notebook and stub of a pencil that he always carried with him and sat down. By mid afternoon, the area surrounding him was covered with pieces of paper, some crumpled, some with large portions crossed out. The majority of the pages, however, were spread out in front of him. He had re-created the "theoretical" intersection equations that he had started years ago. He didn't have the anwers yet, but he felt fairly confident these equations would get him back home.
He stood, placed his hands in the small of his back, and bent backwards, eliciting a symphony of snaps, crackles and pops from his spine. He needed to stretch his legs and let his mind wander. He looked both ways, and eventually decided that one way was just as good as the other. His mind preoccupied with the equations, he started walking counter clockwise.
He came to stop some time later, a slowly building sense of dread finally breaking through his thoughts. He was surveying his surroundings, trying to discover the cause for the feelings, when the realization hit him hard enough to take his breath away.
He had been walking steadily uphill the whole time.


“They're genetically identical to non-anomalous European honey bees.”
Dr. Kiryu removed his glasses and tossed them onto his desk, sighing. An unexpected interception of a Marshall, Carter, and Dark Ltd. memo had brought up all sorts of recent investigations and inconveniences, not to mention piles of paperwork and in the end all that was found was an ordinary beehive?
“Are you quite sure?”
Riven, Kiryu's recently-designated researcher assistant, shrugged. “The lab's sure, at least. Thing is though, they also discovered some sort of strange substance inside the beehive. Sort of a super-concentrated royal jelly or something. It even looks special. Crystallizes a dark red.”
The doctor casually poured some bottled water into the potted bamboo plant on his desk. “And is that stuff anomalous?”
“We don't know yet. There's not a lot of that substance in the hive, maybe three little pieces, but personnel noticed that all the worker bees carry a little bit of the substance with them when they go out to collect nectar.” Riven flipped through a few of the papers he was carrying. “Also, the cameras we set up recorded something interesting.”
“Go on, Riven.”
“We saw a bird try and get into the hive. One of the worker bees stung it, and when its stinger got ripped out, the bee started eating the red jelly stuff that it was carrying on its leg. It stopped moving, and, well, we had to fast forward the footage to see it, but over the next few hours the body started shrinking, and at the end what was left was this tiny red crystal thing, like what we found in the hive. One of the other worker bees picked it up and took it away.”
Dr. Kiryu tossed the empty water bottle towards his recycling bin, watching it collide with the wall and then clatter into the bin. “Have the personnel there take a small sample of the substance from the hive, and we'll run some tests when they return with it.”

Test subject: D-1758
Effects observed: Subject reported feeling drowsy, then fell asleep after approximately two minutes. Attempts to wake subject were unsuccessful. At three minute mark, subject was determined to have expired, cause of death is currently unknown. No signs of stress were detected in subject.

“So the bees make deadly painkiller,” Riven stated, scribbling away on a clipboard.
“Undetectable deadly painkiller. Guess I can see how MCD would be interested in that.” Dr. Kiryu was busy cleaning dust off the leaves of his bamboo plant.
“But why does that happen though? Easing the death of a worker bee doesn't do much for the colony as a whole. And the dead bee just becomes one piece of that painkiller stuff. No net gain.”
Dr. Kiryu peered at his assistant through the leaves of the bamboo. “I took a look at the video logs. I saw one, maybe two, dead worker bees. Not all the bees who die become that substance.”
Riven stopped scribbling. “So only the ones that die by…”
Kiryu nodded. “By defending the hive. Poetic, in an odd and somewhat inconsequential way. They're bees, after all.”
“The painkiller substance would still be useful, though. What if we found a way to collect it for human use? Help those with terminal illnesses, whatnot.”
“Humanity already has some terribly potent drugs.”
Riven put the clipboard down. “But the D-class that was tested, he had a really bad cough. Wheezing. After he took that little piece of red crystal, he didn't cough at all. That scared look in his eyes was gone, and his breathing was even when he first fell asleep. You honestly can't think of anyone who deserves to leave the world as peacefully as that?”

Memo ██
Only one specimen from the hive is to be used, and only two samples of the substance are to be obtained. Video footage of the entirety of the tests is to be recorded.

“How did it go?”
Idly tossing his lab coat onto the back of his swivel chair, Dr. Kiryu sighed and sat down, kicking his desk and spinning around a few times on the chair. His assistant waited patiently.
“We obtained two samples of the substance. One that was carried by a worker bee, and one that was created from provoking that same worker bee to use its stinger and die.”
Riven didn't look up from the test log he was typing. “And?”
Dr. Kiryu glanced sideways at his assistant. “Same effects for both samples. One minute in, the D-class starts screaming. About two minutes in, he starts clutching at his arm. Two and a half minutes, he starts moaning something about feeling like his arm was ripped out. Three minutes, he's dead, and his face is stiffening up with that look of agony still there.”
Riven hadn't realized he'd typed the same word three times. Mashing the laptop's delete key, he narrowed his eyes slightly. “But that doesn't make sense. Were the lab samples identical to the one taken directly from the hive?”
“They were, at least to our electronic eyes. If we want the beneficial effects, we need to take directly from the hive, which is out of the question because the colony hasn't yet replaced the first sample we took from them.”

Memo ██
I am requesting that further testing involving the discovered hive and colony be postponed, until the well-being of the colony itself is no longer a concern. –Dr. Kiryu

“So after all that time and effort, you're still unsure of whether it's a skip or not?” Dr. Kiryu gave a small start as Riven's incredulous voice (and the stack of papers making contact with his desk) snapped him out of his afternoon reverie.
“I don't think the colony deserves to be put under that scrutiny. Have you noticed that all this time, the colony has only decreased in number? It might not survive further human observation."
Dr. Kiryu looked away from the unfinished paperwork on his desk, turning his gaze instead towards the window. “Can you think of no one who would prefer a peaceful death over a painless one?”
“Why not use the bees' painkiller to help humans?”
The doctor stood up, still watching sunlight stream into the room. “Because it's not ours to use. The bees deserve it more than we do.”
Riven tilted his head slightly. “Are you saying you think the bees are as self-aware as humans?”
“Sacrifice, Riven. Every worker has the comfort of knowing that their ultimate sacrifice eases the pain of those who also suffer their fate.”
The doctor opened the window, watching the new-fallen autumn leaves skitter across the concrete ground. “I wish we had such a reliable pact here.”

Investigation log ███
Item Class: Not Applicable (anomalous object)
Upon Dr. Kiryu's request, the hive and the entire colony were transported to a meadow under Foundation ownership, within the boundaries of Site-██. Access to the hive is to require Level 2 clearance and proper documentation; a population count is to be carried out twice a month.
Note: The honey produced by the bees following the transfer has been proven to possess no anomalous properties.

A few months later:

A few months later:

“Doctor, are you going to visit the bees again?”
“Yes, Riven. Don't look so surprised.” Dr. Kiryu wound a scarf around his neck, wearing a wistful expression that his assistant couldn't place—not quite sadness, not quite happiness, just a little hopeful, just a little weary.
“Why not just have the hive classified as a skip? Then you can visit and work with the colony all the time. Isn't that what you want, to learn from the bees?”
“No. Whatever we should learn from these bees can't be found in a laboratory or testing room. Besides, it's lovely outside this time of year.” Dr. Kiryu considered the small pile of paperback books on his desk. Canterbury Tales, John Donne's Meditations, Beowulf. He eventually selected Faust I.
Riven absentmindedly prodded the potted bamboo plant on Dr. Kiryu's desk as he watched. “What's the watering can for?”
“The gladiolus I planted there last time, of course.”
“Can I go visit the bees too?”
Mark Kiryu smiled. “Naturally. You'll be carrying my lawn chair, by the way.”


Journal Entry, September the Twentieth, the Year of our Lord, Eighteen Ninety-One
I have encountered the most marvelous thing at the lakehouse! There is a winding closed path there that slopes ever upwards… even once you have returned to your start!
I have spent the last few days walking and studying it, and have yet to find an explanation. But I shall continue! I feel like I am on the edge of something enormous and wonderful, like standing on a cliffside overlooking the sea. And I will not cease until I have drunk my fill!
I should wire Franklin immediately to come join me, but I'm dread to involve anyone else until I have an explanation in my own mind. I seem to sense some mathematical forms that may adequately apply. Perhaps I should wait until I am further down this path before involving my brother. He is busy with his surgery, after all.
Journal Entry, June the Twenty-First, the year of our Lord, Eighteen Ninety-Three
I delayed perhaps too long in asking Agnes to marry me, but I was quite distracted by these wonderful equations. They are fascinating and complex and hint of a world of ease for all men, if we can but exploit them properly. It may be overly romantic, but I wanted to provide proof of my love and devotion to Agnes before asking for her hand. So I used some of the simpler forms I derived from the path to forge for her a key to open any lock and unbar any door, that she and I may never be separated.
Franklin teased me about it, but he is as fascinated as I am by these derived mathematics. So far, I have only found applications in the physical realm, but he believes they may be applicable to medicinal breakthroughs as well. He also suggested bringing on Thomas and Jeremy as well, although they are not scientifically minded and I do not see how they might provide assistance. Still, I am loathe to withhold benefit from the world, even if we must provide it slowly.
Journal Entry, January the First, the year of our Lord, Nineteen Hundred and One
The first day of a new century. It's hard to believe all the wondrous things we've discovered and created during the last decade. I know it's sentimental, but I harbor a fondness for Agnes' key. I suppose it is akin to the fondness another man might hold for his first-born son.
I spent the morning reviewing my notes on the data I collected on this past equinox, and I do believe that I may be able to finally formulate a partial set of rules to govern the properties of a body moving at or beyond the speed of light in a vacuum. I shall proceed with my experiments within the month. The Crab Nebula should be sufficiently distant to effectively test my hypothesis.
Agnes wishes me to review some documents regarding the outlay for the new facility Jason is building in Arizona, but I am no financier and have no desire to embroil myself in a spat with Jason. Frankly, my dear Agnes has a much better head for how to soothe his bruised ego than I ever have and I trust her to perform her duties well.
Journal Entry, July Second, Nineteen-Fourteen A.D.
Blast it! Thomas and his little coterie have been meddling again! The recent events in Sarajevo bore all the signs of their interference, particularly in light of their interest in the territories along the German-Austrian border. The depradations they have already performed… When I first met Thomas, I would not have expected such depravities of him. That flute alone…
I must meet with Agnes, Elizabeth and my brother, and soon. Perhaps if we hurry, we will be able to mitigate some of the effects of this. I dare not allow us to openly intervene, but perhaps something more subtle may be possible. I believe my brother has been breeding some sort of creatures that inhibit dream states. One or two of those let loose on a general or recalcitrant head of state might be useful.
Journal Entry, January Eighteenth, 1919 AD
I watched those pompous fools sign their treaty today, despite Franklin's misgivings. He was afraid that those traitorous breakaways would try to disrupt the proceedings, but even they must see how utterly foolish and wasteful this whole unpleasant business was. But to see these utter, utter fools crow and humiliate the Krauts… This will not end well.
In the meantime, we must attempt to reclaim our possessions lost in the heat of battle. At least a few of Franklin's beasts slipped their tethers at the beginning of the war, and he only just revealed to me that he neglected to remove their ability to breed true prior to their release. Jeremy and Thomas were quite busy as well, and I'm certain that the only reason England didn't suffer more was due to their interference. I quite wonder whether they would have been so quick to light the flame if they had known it would spread to the entirety of Europe.
Quite bothersome is a report that Elizabeth passed to me that a group of our agents monitoring the fronts went mad sometime last year, and have taken to worshipping that ugly mass of rust we recovered from one of Jeremy's holdings at the beginning of the War. She recommends letting them tend it, but I'm somewhat discomfitted by the idea of heathens in our halls, even if they would be fully under our control. I must discuss this with the others.
Agnes has been pestering me about our holdings in Canada, especially regarding some sort of aquatic nonsense that Jason has been experimenting with, but frankly, I'd rather not be bothered. He has always been a handful and I find the entire affair draining. Let her deal with him.
Journal Entry, May Ninth, 1933
As I predicted, the humiliation of the Germans produced bitter fruit. This Hitler fellow has all the hallmarks of a developing nuisance, and I greatly suspect that we will need to send one of Sophia's little gentlemen to bring him into line. The atrocious Italian affair is also of concern. I should see if any of our agents within their government can stabilize things until the Germans are under control.
The only consolation is that the heightened fervor of that state allows us to hide our activities amongst the masses somewhat more easily. I am particularly pleased with the preliminary results of my spatial expander in the Black Forest. If successful, I believe I might be able to apply the same precepts to a more portable environment, perhaps even as small as a cabinet.
Agnes insists that we need to expand our operations in the Orient, but for the life of me I cannot see why. The Chinese are of no interest to me, much less the rest of the Mongoloids in that region. At best, they would make rude fodder for some of my brother's more esoteric experiments.
As much as it pains me, I believe I must speak with Elizabeth about the situation with Jason. His behavior is growing more erratic, and I suspect that we may need to restrain him before he becomes dangerously unstable.
Journal Entry, December Twenty-Fifth, 1943
The waste, the waste, the sheer and utter WASTE!
Agnes was correct, Sophia was useless, and Jason is nothing but a failure! So many! So many lives spent without reason! I am furious that Jason allowed Roosevelt to even begin the atomic program, much less allow it to proceed this far!
I must see if Sophia can salvage any of this by sharing the information amongst the Germans. She tells me our agents amongst them have access to a large pool of subjects with whom we can test the radio-active effects. I am less trusting of her competence, however. Perhaps Agnes will be willing to oversee the project.
Journal Entry, September 2nd, 1945
At long last this debacle is over, although I had hoped that it would have ended differently. As I oversaw the close of the previous War, so shall I oversee the closing of this one. I have grown so tired of these machinations.
Perhaps I shall retire to my neglected studies.
Journal Entry, August 17th, 1948
I am much amused by this fellow Feynman. His innovative diagrams are quite useful for the modeling of the subatomic, and I dearly wish I had known of them in the early years of our endeavor of this Foundation. They would have quite expedited much of my research. I have considered inviting him into our cohort, if only to see whether he would have any other little intuitions regarding the true shape of reality. However, I fear that we may be somewhat retarding the growth of the unenlightened masses by continually plucking the finest minds from their midst.
In less pleasant developments, Agnes has formally left me. Truth be told, it was not much of a surprise, given the gulf that has grown between us. I remember when we would lay in the grass and have quiet conversations about music or physics or the intrigues of our extended families. But that has all vanished, replaced with Council meetings and logistical coordinations and a chilly, distant, brittle shred of respect and regard.
Even with all the powers at our fingertips, there is so much we cannot, no, WILL not do.
Journal Entry, March 3, 1961
The Soviet space program is proceeding apace, albeit somewhat quicker than I initially anticipated. I suppose Nikita feels like he must prove something.
I do not anticipate any incursions into our Lunar territories in the near future, but we can never be too careful. I'll travel to the Lunar base later this month to inspect the protective and camouflage measures for the base and the deposits at the Lagranges. In any case, I haven't used the telescopes there in quite some time. I may be given reports about our extra-Solar probes, but I still like to look in on the projects once in a while.
So many responsibilities these days, so little time to relax. Whatever happened to the lad who walked the path so many years ago? I get so maudlin around my birthday. And so few people left to remember it.
Journal Entry 01/01/1966
So begins the 75th year since my discovery of that damned path.
I can no longer turn a blind eye to the disease that has overcome us all. For truly, hubris has spread like a plague among us, as we bend and twist and break the world to fit our whims. I claim no innocence in this, but cannot ignore the horrors unleashed with grim joy by those I once called friends and family.
I remember the curiosity I felt when I first walked the path, and the wonder once I found the equations that sustain it. I remember the excitement in my brother's eyes as he began to see the ramifications, the delight on Agnes' face when I showed her the key.
The path gave us the power to rebuild the world. It is time I finally do so.

Journal Entry, September the Twenty-Third, the year of our Lord, Eighteen Ninety One
My sabbatical to the new lakehouse has done me a world of good. I discovered an old walking path on the grounds that led to a marvelous vista above the lake, and I made a sketch of it for Agnes. Perhaps I may entice her to come boating with me, should her cousin be available to chaperone.


To whom it may concern,
First and foremost, I would like to offer congratulations to each and every member of staff working here. When I set out upon that gravel path, I never once thought we could break space and time in such ways as we have. The amount we have created is something I once believed unthinkable, and yet there is still more we can bring into being. Our work is far from complete, and there are many steps mandatory before we can even consider the notion of quitting. Over the course of our experimenting, we've discovered possibly innumerable ways in which the universe can be destroyed, and ways in which we can contain the fragments. Everything we've done- from the Hateful Star to the Telekill Alloy- has been a complete success. Through all this, I wish the Foundation many, many years of success to come.
However, that is not the point of this letter. The point of this letter is to inform you all of the success of my latest experiment. Yes, I have continued my research into the unknown. Before I tell you about this one, however, I must delve into my reasoning for this experiment.
The idea for this particular line of research came to me about six months after we'd started. I was worried. Yes, I know, that's out of character for a man with so much power, but I was worried. You see, we'd been creating all of these wonderful things, but we had to be secretive. We had to make sure that no-one would know. As the months dragged by, this worry festered. It's always going to raise suspicions when you disappear almost entirely and reappear several months later, as the head of a huge company. Every time I heard a rumour that a certain SCP was man-made, it sent a shiver down my spine. I paced up and down in my lab, wondering how to best cover my tracks. I didn't want to be punished for advancing human knowledge. I wanted to keep a firm grip on this control until I died, as did all of the others. We worked together. We arranged for some of the entities to be found, and we wrote the reports for the others. This was not enough. I had to find a way to ensure that no-one could ever find me, or anyone around me, out. I soon hit upon an incredible idea.
What if I could erase myself from official existence?
I know that I make it sound like I wanted to kill myself. I wasn't planning on ending my life, I was planning on wiping myself from official documents, making it seem that I'd never existed at all. The best way to cover my tracks was to destroy them entirely.
It took a few months of solid, hard work, but I finished. I found a way to make it look like I'd never officially existed. It was dangerous, I will not lie. I constructed a Faraday cage around my lab for protection, due to the potentially volatile nature of the experiment, instructed everyone to stay clear of my room, and got to work.
It worked. It worked far too well.
My suspicions were first raised when my own brother walked into the room, and was surprised to see that I was there. I was confused, but I assumed he just forgot that I was there. I went to the cafeteria, and found people trying to work out ‘when we built that Faraday cage.' I ignored them, as I hadn't told many people that I was building it.
When I found an official document detailing the room that I was in, that's when I realised that something was wrong. I'd been classified as an SCP.
I didn't erase myself from official documents; I'd erased myself from existence entirely. People came into my lab to take photographs of me, to converse with me, to figure out what I was. High level researchers, my friends, my brother didn't recognise me anymore. No-one could remember me, even hours after the fiftieth visit.
I continued with my work. I made more of these things, and put them in containment. Almost immediately, I noticed that people had no idea where they came from. Not the official documentation, of course, I'd handled that, but more specifically Thomas and my brother were discussing, in hushed tones, how they hadn't created those ones. At that point, the realisation of what I'd done really hit me.
My reason for creating the Foundation and what it contains, at first, was discovery. To discover what we could do if we bent reality. To see if we could improve lives. Now, of course, it's a different story for the others. Some of them are in it for personal gain, some for more of that discovery we yearned after in the beginning, even more for a chance to create the impossible. However, even that does not explain my reasoning.
The thing is, after bending the laws of physics so many times, I got used to playing god. Now, I get to be one. I get to manipulate reality from behind the scenes. I classified myself Keter, to see how you'd react to the idea of something potentially world ending completely fading from memory. I edited myself into the official document on how we started, although you won't remember my name being there. I have told everyone that I'm not circular, and that's the only thing you remember about me anymore. While the number of SCPs I have created is quite small, the number of ideas I gave birth to is tremendous.
I started manipulating people too. I started discussing, with high-ranking researchers that I'd told to come in to my room, what else they could do with SCPs. How they could worship machines, make art, mass market them for profit or just destroy them. When they left, they forgot about me, but they remembered the ideas. They assumed that the ideas were theirs, and so they saw them out. It was almost like brainwashing. It gave me more power, power that I've lusted after since the beginning of the Foundation. I'm controlling all of these people, even you. You see, after reading this letter, you'll rush off and go to tell someone. Along the way, you'll drop the letter, and forget where it is you're going. You could be the first person to read it, you could be the hundredth, it doesn't matter. After this, you go back to being nothing but a pitiful, powerless pawn, created for the sole purpose of testing my control.
Everything that the Foundation, and any of the other groups, has done is down to me and me alone. Sometimes I come up with ideas, and tell other researchers. Sometimes I create them and put them in containment. I organise outbreaks to test the might of my creations. Every idea, every thought you have ever had in your measly, unimportant waste of a life is either known or made by me and me alone.
I know that you consider me evil, or unjust, or corrupt. I know you believe that this is unacceptable and a gross misuse of power. The truth is, mortal gods do not adhere to the same restrictive moral code as you insignificant insects.
Yours forgettably,
Aaron Siegel
>AKA O5-5.


On ██/██/████, SCP-1733's test log was found to have accumulated several █████ more viewings. Upon discovery, the video was going through what is estimated to be the █████ playback. Most of the video showed the stadium filled with multiple mutilated corpses of many figures present in previous playbacks. In the last five minutes of the playback, a single blood-drenched audience member wrestles the camera down and places it on the floor in front of him. The following is a transcription of his monologue:

I couldn't bring myself to do it, man. I just couldn't. We all agreed a while ago that we'd just kill ourselves in whatever way we could, but I just can't do it. We're in a living hell, and I'm still too much of a coward to die. I just… I can't…

The man cries for the following twenty seconds.

This is all I can think of at this point. Trying to use the camera to get to someone out there. They've tried it before, they've tried it so many times, and it's never worked but… I just gotta try something. There's dead bodies everywhere, and this is all I can think of. It's a TV camera. Someone's gotta be out there. Producers or audience or… just someone who can help. I've gotta try.
If… no… you out there. You've gotta be out there. We're trapped. I don't know how, and I most certainly don't know why, but we're trapped. The game's been going on repeat for… God, I lost track back in the ████ hundreds… It's been awful. It was just this weird feeling at first, but now I know that the exact same few hours have been happening again and again and again and again. And there's no way out.
For most of us, at least. I think there were a few lucky people who left in the middle of the first game to do… something. I don't know. Once the crazy religious guys figured out that they could leave when nobody else could, they started torturing 'em. Never got a word out before they resorted to just bashing their heads against the walls at the start of every repeat.
But other than them, we don't have any way of getting out of this building. I'm not even sure an outside exists anymore. We're just in limbo, going around and around and…

Several seconds of heavy breathing, followed by nervous laughter.

The shit we've seen. Only took a few dozen go throughs before they started forming cults. Didn't take much longer before they were sacrificing players and children in a desperate attempt to get out. And it just got worse and worse from there. There was an outright war this one time; at least, they tried to have a war. Gave it up when they realized it was pointless if nobody stays dead. Few guys tried some psychological stuff on the heads of the people who could get out. They stayed catatonic for the rest of the time. We've had fires, electrocutions, shootouts - you'd be surprised how many crazy fuckers brought guns - holy crusades, cannibalism… even that day when the religious nuts tried drowning the babies in the backed up toilet.
But it just keeps happening. We can change the way things happen all they want, but once that timer runs out, a few minutes later, everything goes dark and we're sitting right back where we started. The time between the go-throughs varies. Sometimes we have to wait a few minutes, sometimes a few hours, sometimes it's almost as fast as you can blink. It's all relative, of course. Feels like no time has passed at all once the go-through starts, but you can kinda remember an empty black period, like you don't even exist but you're aware of it. It's really freaky.
This one time, this one glorious time, we were gone for what felt like years. I was ready to just cheer that we'd finally gotten out. Then I realized that if I could cheer, that meant the game had started again. But just imagine: we could have just been out forever, and all the things that happened after they started trying to kill the kids would have never happened.
But… we just kept going and going. The violence, the sex, the hatred, the fear, it was all there, and it just kept going. I died a fair deal of times during it. They even pulled my lungs out in an attempt to build a golem of some kind. But it's all in vain. I realized pretty early on there's no way out.
And then everyone else did too. Every go-through, we'd have a few more people joining in on the suicide pact. They'd jump off the balcony, or get the guns and shoot themselves, or just bash their heads against the wall til they dropped. You'd have people being dragged along into it, people resisting, a few crude bombs designed to bring the ceiling down on us but… you know the drill by now. We die, it resets.
So that's where we are now. Pretty much everyone but the smallest children have agreed to kill themselves as soon as everything resets. They drag the younger ones along. The ennui's finally gotten to us. We've all done the absolute worst things a person can do, even me. I've made myself sound like some kind of white knight while doing this, but really, I've done some horrible things too. I fucking brutalized a kid in one of the hallways out of frustration and just left him there. We hit rock bottom and kept going til we fell out into the void.
That's that. Everyone else here has lost all hope, and I'm pretty much on the brink. It's only because I've got you out there listening that's keeping me here, and believe me, you're not that much help. I've got a kid's upper torso two feet away from me and the blood just keeps getting closer. There's a ringing in my ears and a voice in the back of my head that just keeps thinking of all the ways I have to kill myself. But so long as I've got someone out there, I…
Oh, fuck, who am I kidding? There is no one out there. There hasn't been from the start.

Thirty seconds of silence.

I was never too much of a religious man. But I did go to church. Every Sunday. They said killing yourself is the fastest way to go to hell. Low as you can go. This place seems to be a whole lot lower than that. So if I just blow my brains out, maybe I've got a chance of climbing out of this place.
Or maybe I'm just gonna wake right up here again.

The man walks off camera. The sound of a gun being loaded is heard, followed shortly by the click of the safety being turned off. End of tape.


David entered the apartment block, covering his mouth with a soiled silk rag. It did not help much; his lungs itched and burned from the dense haze that blanketed the city, which served as a constant reminder of the day previous. In an effort to prevent it drifting in, he slammed the door shut quickly.
He stormed up the stairs, footsteps clattering like a typewriter. He soon exhausted himself, despite being fit and young. He rested, wheezing, on the third landing. There was a wide poster opposite to him, depicting the “Benevolent” Leader, a great wolfspider, feasting on flies with tophats and monocles. “DON'T BE A CAPITALIST'S MAGGOT,” the caption read.
A vivid image came to him; a protest sign laying among lifeless corpses, their limbs at disjointed angles. “FREEDOM OR DEATH,” it read, in bold lettering. It was almost charming in its naivety. Like all of them had been.
Tears welled up in David's eyes, and he kicked that blasted poster. Once, twice. The wall crumbled beneath the force, and one of his legs became caught, knee deep, in the wall.
“Goddamnit!” he swore, and extricated himself, struggling. Clouds of dust swirled up as he did so. Swearing, he took the poster, tore it up into little pieces, and stormed again up the stairs and into his apartment.
It was crowded with useless junk and litter. Sheets covered the floor. “LIBERTY PRESS,” most pieces read, with bold title headings saying things like "DON'T BE CAUGHT IN THE COMMUNIST'S WEB." He opened his freezer and sourly took a bottle of the strongest drink he had; light beer. It would take him, what, a hundred liters to get drunk on that? He could probably do better drinking water.
He took himself, crumpled into the porous brown sofa, and cleared the cluttered table beside it, sitting the bottle on it. Irritatedly, he realised he should use a coaster, and took the nearest scrap of paper for this purpose.
“Working a shift, will be back late – XOXOXO, Melanie,” it read. Another reminder! Goddamnit! Melanie was dead, like all the others, he reminded himself, taking a swill. In a way he was lucky, really. He tore the paper scrap up and cast it away, ignoring his previous concern about coasters. There was a certain irony, he mused, to being concerned about those little circle-stains when the room was so cluttered with filth.
Yesterday.
Yesterday was the day of the protest march. He had helped organise it, of course; that's why all the papers were there. He had written scathing critiques of communism, as part of the Liberty Press. So had Melanie. They had urged the people to action.
And action they had made. A few thousand people gathered in the square, bearing signs of protest, shouting slogans. And then…
And then, a ghastly green haze had drifted in. At first, people had assumed it was just from the industry. Since “Benevolent Leader,” there had been a great industrial boom. And with it, smog came often. But no; it did not just itch and burn the lungs.
It killed. It killed swiftly and suddenly. The fuckers had used chemical weapons! Chemical weapons on peaceful protesters!
Those fuckers. They had killed almost everyone he knew. His mother had been taken in the purges, like most of the older generation. He remembered his mother. She had been a huge woman, much, much larger than any man; kind but domineering. She had killed his father swiftly and mercifully.
His sisters had been conscripted. He did not know what had happened to them (you never did). They were probably dead; buried together in their own mass grave. His brothers, they had been forced into prostitution. Most, he knew, had been brutally murdered by clients. His friends, of course, were dead with the protesters. Even that friendly homeless man had just disappeared one day.
He had liked that homeless man.

REPORT:
SCP-1006 has placed a request for less mosquito spraying in the surrounding park area, following Incident 1006-12, which resulted in the expiration of multiple SCP-1006 instances gathered at the dispersion point.
Signed: Agent Boyles