The best day of Sara Yarkoni's life was the day when she finally grew a pair and hung herself from a ceiling fan.

As if it would be that easy.

BookBurn't Track Listing

Track 1: On The Brink Of Stable
Track 2: Friends You Shouldn't Keep Are The Hardest To Get Rid Of
Track 3: دوستت دارم
Track 4: To My Psychiatrist
Track 5: Family Is A Social Construct (Feat. Goodie-Two-Shoes and the Straight As Gang)
Track 6: Self-Titled Interview, Redux, Part 2, In 11/8 Time

Now, the worst day of Sara's life had to be that first (and last) day working at WhiteLice. It was an internship thing to waste the summer between her first and second year at Yale. Her parents were so happy when they heard she got the position. Most proactive thing she'd done in her life. She had a bit of a knack for web design anyways, and it's not like they need interns to do any real software engineering.
She waited in the elevator along with three other interns (presumably). They were all dressed in button-ups and slacks. The usual Manhattan casual dress attire. No one spoke a word as they waited for the doors to open to the 23rd floor. The walls of the office proper were just panes of glass. Sara could see the construction of what would eventually be the new World Trade Center Building One in the next lot over. Sara was old enough to remember 9/11, and all the fear that came afterwards. A lot of fucked up things happened as a result, but there was a glimmer of pride that glowed inside her when she thought about how all these people got back on their feet and thought "let's build it again".
The small pack of interns stumbled confusedly out of the elevator like babies from a womb.
"Hello there! You're all here for orientation?" a woman called from their left, "Come over this way! We got some presentations before we dive into everything."
She had that "presenter" cadence to her voice that meshed with a "third grade teacher calling students in from recess" tune that instantly made Sara hate her. But Sara was too shy at that age to let it show, still trying to play the role of a good girl to get through life.
The woman showed the interns through a hallway where they could see where they would perform cheap labor for the next few months. Employees sat at rows and rows of cubicles, head down, giving themselves carpal tunnel syndrome. Truly living the American Dream. Apparently this is what Sara's parents wanted for her and Ana. Something stable. Something predictable. Something bland.
But hey, don't knock it until you try it, right?
Sara sat smack in the middle of the conference room they were using for orientation. Sitting too far in the back would've made her look like she was hiding, and too far forward would make her stick out as a kiss-ass. The middle was good though. Much easier to blend into.
Ten minutes later, the room had properly filled with interns, and the woman who had guided Sara inside took the podium.
"Hello everyone! And welcome to your first day here at WhiteLice! As you know, we're a loan management company largely focussed on financing new home owners. We work out of this floor and the one above us…"
The rest of the speech faded into just noise for Sara. The woman's rhythm was far too regular. Like the most boring backing vocals Sara had ever heard. But they still wrought of rhythm, and she couldn't help but tap her foot along. She wanted to go back home and play a few riffs on her guitar. Or do literally anything else. She almost prayed for something to cut this meeting off.
In the days to come, she would occasionally lapse into blaming herself for what came next.
CRASH
The entire conference room watched as shattered glass rained from the next floor up. And in the middle of it all, was a man, whose shoulder was quite throughly stuck with shards. Like a meaty pin cushion. He fell in slow motion. Sara could swear they locked eyes. Hers wide in surprise, his wide and manic. And in his expression, Sara could tell, the man had done this on purpose.
The orientation meeting was quickly called to a close, and the interns sent home for the day. Between the following onslaught of lawsuits and the ravaging financial crisis (yay 2007!), WhiteLice thought it wise to just, discontinue their internship program for that year.
Sara's mental health up until that point was never in great condition, but watching someone throw themselves from the 24th floor of a building set off a switch in her. Just this epiphany that life only lasts as long as you want it to. It's the sort of thing that's obvious when you say it out loud, but that day crystalized the notion in her head. When the world went quiet, and she was alone with the bad thoughts, occasionally that man's voice (at least she assumed it was his), would whisper from the recesses:
"You could just jump, if you wanted to."

We can also consider one of the many nights the crew spent drinking together for "worst day ever":
The shed Bradley purchased as a makeshift studio for the band was quite nice in the fall. Sure, it didn't have heating or air conditioning, but its walls were sturdy enough to block out the wind, and that's 90% of what makes the weather suck in BackDoor SoHo. That and the way the sky is always cloudy. Sara would look up and see the buildings rising so high above her into a blanket of grey and realize how low she was to the ground. How much world there was out there and how high everyone else could climb. And then the rain would start falling and she'd wished she brought her umbrella.
So, in the evenings House of Spades would just lounge about the shed like they owned the place, and raid the mini-fridge they installed if someone happened to buy a six pack. Unfortunately for Sara, she rarely liked the beer selection and forgot to bring joints tonight, so she had to navigate conversation entirely sober (which makes her no more graceful and removed half of her good excuses for saying dumb shit).
"The fuck you mean you tune into my cam shows?" Sara shouted. Veronica's mention of it was so offhand that Sara almost didn't notice. But then her braincells chugged a little longer and the words registered properly and she could not just let that go. The sudden outburst made Izzy nearly spit her drink (which would've been a waste of three bucks), and even made Jack double take.
"What? You're sexy. It's not something to be embarrassed about," Veronica shot back. She was not expecting such a rebuttal. But also in fairness to Sara, she wasn't embarrassed. Everyone here had seen her naked, and probably mid-coitus on multiple occasions. It's just the premise that there was someone she knew out there behind the screen, mingling with all the greaseballs she presumed made up most of her audience.
"Mrs. Exhibitionist wants to keep her clothes on for the band?" Izzy teased. She had front row tickets to knowing that wasn't the case. Jack snirked at that, but then collapsed back into his arms.
"It's just…" Sara fumbled for a smooth recovery, "if you want to see me without a top you can just ask." Nailed it.
Veronica crossed her arms and shot Sara a sinister smile, "You sure you don't want to put some qualifications on that?"
"Eh, what does it matter. I already fuck around with tentacles. Not a lot harder I can go from there."
Sara laughed at her own joke, but when she stopped she realized that she was the only one. Jack was completely conked out. Veronica hid a small knowing smile, but nothing more. And then there was Izzy, arguably the most important audience member for this specific joke, dead silent.
It's not like Izzy was ever super self-conscious about her condition. Hell, she even made those jokes with Sara when they were alone. It wasn't like some taboo had been crossed. It's just like, there are some jokes that you don't get to make when you're around your friends, and far too sober. Because that means that you thought through every word and decided "yeah, I get to say this now". It implies "yeah, I sort of mean this". It's the most true kind of thing you can ever say, because you thought it was so normal you didn't even hesitate.
It was a small thing. Sara and Izzy had hundreds of bigger emotional crashes over the years. But even well after their engagement, this day crept up on Sara to fill her with this intense urge to apologize to her fiancé once again.

Oh oh oh! And there was also every time Sara saw Bijhan after they broke up! Yeah those are good options too.
There was the first time, just outside the embassy. It was like, less than a week after the break up and Sara was doing that thing where she just let her feet take her somewhere without asking too many questions. Unfortunately, her feet weren't over Bijhan either so they autopiloted her to the worst architectural mistake to ever grace BackDoor SoHo. By the time she realized what situation she stumbled into, it was too late and she already got an eye-full of Bijhan exiting the embassy.
Unlike their first meeting, Sara was far enough from the building that she didn't run the man over, but just for good measure, she ducked into an alleyway.
"Fuck fuck fuck," she cursed to herself, with her back pressed up against the wall. Her heart was pounding so hard it hurt.

The second time was mid-performance. The band had been on a dry stint for about a few months when they had finally got a gig over in Brooklyn. Everyone crammed into Veronica's car, and Jack and Izzy had to stick their appendages out the side to keep the drum set from careening into oncoming traffic, but they managed to make it to the venue.
Sara had grown used to seeing crowds filled with wizards and cybernetically enhanced catboys, so walking into this little hole in the wall without a single sign of magic gave her a miniature culture shock. Like, she knew that baseline New York was out there, she just forgot that sometimes it wanted to listen to her music.
Sara was able to distract herself from how freakishly normal her audience was because all the left over vape and blunt smoke formed a nice blanket over the audience, so the band could only see silhouettes through the fog. As the set wore on, the audience either ran out of joints, or were so enthralled in the music that they forgot to keep taking hits. The room felt electric. Sara thought that they must've really been on fire that night. A performance for the ages. Although part of her remains unconvinced to this day that Izzy didn't cast a literal spell over the audience. Very rare you can get away with that in SoHo without being called out.
But all of that intense concentration meant that there were no new pollutants filling the air. The normalcy of all these faces became more and more apparent by the minute. Sara used to play for crowds like these all the time. She had those recitals when she was a kid, and then the few gigs she got in college…
Except he wasn't in any of those crowds. That Persian face snapped her back to the present. Because she wasn't a kid anymore, with all those dreams ahead of her. Or a college student in the throes of being a dumb ass who could claim she didn't know any better. She was nearly thirty. Thirty. Fuck that's old.
Then the dumb kid part of her brain kicked into overdrive.
"Well, what are we gonna do about it?"
"We're still in our twenties."
"Let's do something stupid."
And so she ditched her guitar in the middle of the set and darted from the stage. She didn't look back to see how the rest of the band handled it. They would tell her later, between her gasping apologies, that they played it off real cool. In reality they did not. They just sort of awkwardly finished out the song, and then moved onto one where Jack could take over on vocals.
But none of that was important right now. The only thing that was important was chasing down the man who came all the way out to fucking Brooklyn to see her play. She worked her way around the edge of the crowd, trying not to draw too much attention to herself. Of course that was a futile prospect. She literally just left the stage. But an effort was made nonetheless.
Then she dived into the crowd, analyzing faces, surveying for Bijhan. But he was gone. Or maybe he was never there. It was hard to tell.
The door swung open in the back. A cold gust of wind washed over the crowd. Sara felt nauseously sober.

Which brings us to the third time. How does the saying go? Third time's the charm? Good things come in threes? Well none of those apply here.
She was at the JFK airport to pick up Ana. She had made a trip to see some of the extended family in Iran, and while Sara couldn't drive, she thought it would be nice for Ana to see a familiar face after touching down again in the states.
Sara was kind of proud of her sister for heading out that way. Ana really had gotten a nice tour of the world. In addition to the flight to Iran she's gotten a full train tour of Europe, a road trip through the national parks in the western US, and hiking down in Peru. Like the whole nine yards. And then Sara was just… there. In The Big Apple. Like always.
Sara had set up shop plucking away at her guitar near the baggage claim. It was the best she could do to stay awake (Ana was getting in on a red-eye, and Sara barely slept the night prior). Every few minutes a new glut of travellers would spill out of the escalators and scatter among the carousels. Sara would scan their faces for familiarity, and when none caught her attention she would go back to strumming.
A new batch arrived, this time with distinctly Persian faces. Sara perked up, and started scanning. Not Ana. Not Ana. Not Ana. Not Ana… wait.
That was Bijhan, right?
Yeah, like that was totally Bijhan.
Sara slung her guitar across her back. No hiding like at the embassy, and no hesitating like at the gig. She made a beeline for him this time, but didn't run to draw attention to herself. He wasn't getting away. She just wanted to talk was all. Just get lunch was all. Just get back into his life, just a little bit.
She felt a bit like a ninja, dipping in between passengers, hiding herself so she could get closer, and closer. Until she was within arm's length of Bijhan. She tapped him on the back. He stopped and turned around, but before Bijhan had time to react Sara sprung in a full blown hug.
"Long time big guy," she said. Was she coming on strong? Yes. Most certainly. But coming on strong was sort of her thing. "It's been a minute. Want to get lunch?"
"I don't…"
"You don't know? Oh come on, I'm not asking to fuck right away. Just lunch."
"Wait… fuck? What are you talking about?"
Bijhan pushed her away.
"What the hell was that for?" Sara barked back.
"I don't know you!"
"Look, I know the break up wasn't great but you definitely remember me."
Sara's eyelids felt heavy. She let them fall, but then lifted them again. But the blink was all it took for Bijhan's face to morph. Then she blinked again. And again. And a few more times and Bijhan was no longer there.
"I— what? Why are you… never mind. Just don't follow me."
Sara couldn't decide if the look she got was fear or disdain, but she felt like she needed to jump down a pothole right away. Full on delusional. That's one the psychiatrist might actually have to hear about.
And it managed to get even worse.
"Sara? You ok?"
Ana ran over and waved her hand in front of Sara's face.
"You good?"
"Yeah… yeah. Just a mistake. Similar faces or something."
"That looked like there was a bit more to unpack there than just mistaken identity."
"You're not my psychiatrist."
"Geez, sorry. Only wanted to help."
"You know how you could help? You could carry me back to my apartment."
Ana laughed, but Sara really meant that.

This one's a little hazy. Hard to see through all the smoke.
"Four months."
"Wait really?"
It wasn't often that Veronica and Sara hung out together, just the two of them. If Veronica was there, then usually Jack was too. And if it was for band stuff, if Sara was there, Izzy was probably around.
"It's just so damn expensive! Fuckin NYC standard of living my ass."
"Yeah, but like, I thought the check ups were helping?"
"Not more helpful than paying rent."
Of course, Sara and Veronica liked being around each other. They probably listed each other in their dream blunt rotations. It's just that, like, sometimes its hard to find one-on-one time even with people you care about.
"I guess it isn't…"
"Besides, if I went back now I'd probably have to pay for the two other sessions I said I'd… pay for later."
"Jesus christ Sara."
"She's too nice to sick debt collectors on me."
Veronica took another deep hit, "Well, if you still need to vent, I'm here."
"Yeah, but you're high."
"Doesn't make me any less qualified." Veronica handed Sara back her joint.
"I dunno. Don't want to dump all my shit on you."
"Don't think I'm up to handle it?"
"No, no. Like—" Sara inhaled, let the smoke expand in her mouth, and then blew back through the filter, "Aaaaa."
"Alright, alright. How about we trade shit to dump on each other. That work better?"
"Fiiiiiine," Sara took another hit, "I think Izzy keeps hanging around me out of pity."
"What?"
"Like, look at me! I can barely put my shoes on, and I have the self-control of a toddler. I surprise myself every time a bartender doesn't try to card me."
"You and I both know Izzy doesn't really do the pity thing."
"But what if she does like, just for me?"
"Have you tried talking to her about it?"
"Fuck no. How the fuck am I supposed to bring that up?"
"Have you tried 'Isabella Kawajiri, I want you to never leave my pathetic sight. Will you be my wife?'"
Sara let out a cackle "Oooh that's rich. You're somehow worse than I am!"
"Eh, worth a shot."
"Maybe maybe. Now your turn."
"Ok, um, I think Jack is keeping a clone of my soul somewhere."
Sara nearly choked on her blunt smoke.
"What?"
"It's squid magic or something, I don't know. Just sometimes after sex I catch him like, plucking hairs off me and shit and he talks about how he still can't find 'compatible' partners."
Sara started giggling.
"Oh, you think this is funny?"
"Giiiiiiirl, you've just told me that someone values you too much. That gotta be ironic or sad or something."
"You don't think being stored as a back up is creepy? I don't want to be kept alive against my will. That just feels so… I don't know."
"I wish Izzy had a back up of me. Put my soul up on version control. Commit every time I do something she likes. That would be fan-fucking-tastic for my self-esteem. But no, you're out here bitching to me about it."
"I was just venting…"
"Well vent about something better."
"Sheesh," Veronica nearly fell out of the chair, but managed to catch herself, "You want to gatekeep feeling shitty?"
"I was just hoping you would be complaining to me instead of fucking bragging!"
"Well I was hoping I'd get some sympathy!"
"Yeah. No luck V. You gotta," more coughs, "pay someone for that."

And then, who can forget, it's an absolute classic, the recital of '03.
The weekend prior Ana had gotten one of her paintings into a small exhibit that was going up near the Westmoreland Art Museum. Sure, it was an exhibit for high school students, but it was still semi-official recognition of an artistic talent. Something that's hard to come by at any stage of a creative's career.
Sara was able to keep her head up for Ana, be a proud older sister and all that, because she knew she had the recital coming up. A big one too. Apparently someone from Wick Records wanted to pop in and see if they could snag some young unsuspecting singer for an incredibly predatory contract.
"Are you sure you want to go with this button up?" Sara's mom asked, helping her with her cuffs, "We have that green dress you wore last time."
"It's fine. This is probably a little over the top anyways," Sara responded.
"Well, I'm not letting you go out there in a t-shirt and jeans. Besides, it's better to be overdressed than underdressed."
"You two almost ready?" dad called from downstairs, "Traffic is only getting worse!"
"We would've been done earlier if I didn't have to change again," Sara muttered to herself.
Mom finished up the last button on the cuffs and then clasped her hands around Sara's face. They were warm.
"You look great sweetie."
The whole Yarkoni family clambered into their little sedan and got started downtown. The sun had already set in the mid-December sky. The theater was in Manhattan, which meant that Sara got an eyeful of both the classic NYC skyline, as well as the technicolor display that is Times Square. Both Sara and Ana glued their faces to the windows. Despite the impressive lights, the city always felt like it was looming in the dark. Too much light pollution blocked out the stars, leaving a wasteland of black overhead. Like The Big Apple was the only thing in the world. And no matter how far you ran, you couldn't escape it.
By some sort of winter miracle, Sara's dad managed to find street parking near the theater. Another little lick of good luck for the day.
Once inside the auditorium, Sara said goodbye to her family, and then rushed backstage. Her cohort stood around the back. She didn't share anything in common with them other than showing up to the same recitals. She was a much quieter kid back then, so she never said much to the others. The conversations were all boring fluff anyways. Shit about the traffic coming in, about the weather outside. But that's what happens when you gather a bunch of pseudo-strangers together.
Then the show started. A respectful silence enveloped the green room. One by one the other kids would filter onto the stage, play their song, and then return. There was no applause when you got back, no congratulations. Just some knowing nods and maybe a thumbs up, because the next performer had already started their song and if they aren't going to interrupt you then you better shut your trap for them.
A stage hand peaked inside to motion for Sara to come out. She took a deep breath in.
"And up next with her rendition of the Moldy Peaches' 'Anyone But You', Sara Yarkoni!"
Part of Sara hated picking the most basic hit of their discography, but she was worried if she went too esoteric, whatever agent or talent scout in the audience would think she lacked mainstream appeal. Besides, she put her own spin on it. She got some friends to rerecord backing tracks that fit more of a start-stop style. Something with more changes in the rhythm. Give this textureless music some bumps and ripples.
The audience faded away as the music kicked on. Sara's foot started tapping to the beat, entirely of its own accord. The entry for the vocals rolled toward her like a train pulling out of the station: slow but unstoppable. She started to sing and—
Nothing came out right.
Two hands shot up to cover her mouth, but then she remembered where she was and tried to pick back up where she left off. Three bars of fine and then it hit again.
Her voice cracked. Again and again. These vocal cords refused to hit notes. An entire throat held a coup, live on stage.
Now her breathing was off. The theater filled more with the movement of air rather than music. And then her vision went blurry. Tears. It was a full scale breakdown in front of a hundred or so people, including a talent scout and Sara's family. Sara couldn't tell if she should save whatever part of her image she had left, and just exit the stage, or stick it out and keep singing. Ultimately, she never made up her mind. The momentum of the song just carried her indecision to the end of the piece.
She did not stay for a bow. She did not go to the green room (because her continued crying would definitely leak through the curtains). Instead she ran straight for the back exit.
It was cold outside. Snowing even. Sara was not dressed for the weather so she just took a seat next to the building and pulled her legs to her chest. Anything to make her smaller. Anything to make her disappear. Anything to help her forget she was the fuck up of the family.
Sara didn't know how long she spent out there. It was also unclear when her family started looking for her, but by the time Sara's mom came around the side of the building, a thin layer of snow had accumulated on her daughter.
"Sara! Oh my god there you are!" mom shouted. She ran over and started brushing snow off of Sara.
"We were waiting for you to come out since we weren't allowed backstage to check on you!"
"I screwed it up," Sara mumbled. It was mostly meant for herself, but mom heard it anyways.
"No you didn't. That happens to everyone growing up."
"But then I started crying and panicking and I should've just stopped and walked off and not embarrassed—"
A warmth washed over Sara. It was her mother.
"Honey, I know this hurts now. There's a lot of hurt in life," mom said, "But you know what? All that hurt, makes you appreciate everything that much more when you come out on the other side. When you feel like you're drowning, you'll fall in love with your first breath of fresh air. When you're lost in a dark cave, that just makes the first ray of sunlight that much brighter."
Except, Sara didn't wait for her ray of light. For her breath of fresh air. She was hanging from a ceiling fan reliving the worst days of her life as her pulse slowly faded. It's fitting really. That a fuck up like her would be reminded of all the reasons why people might hate her just before she moved on. But now the slideshow was over. Everything was going white.
Maybe this is the sunlight her mom was talking about. Maybe her life was the cave, and this was her exit.
Sara took a step into the bright.

Fuck, these lights are bright.

Sara Yarkoni sits in a lawn chair. Her hands are tied behind her back but she does not appear distressed. Rather, her downcast gaze indicates a sense of defeat. The area behind the lawn chair is entirely dark, and no features can be discerned.
Interviewer: Alright, let's start off with your name and position.
Yarkoni: Why does it fuckin' matter? No one's gonna watch this if they don't already know who we are.
Interviewer: Just do it.
Yarkoni: Fiiiiine. Sara Yarkoni. I sing and play guitar.
Interviewer: Is that all you do?
Yarkoni: No. I also do front-end web development, strip for cash on a cam site, and disappoint everyone around me. That what you're looking for?
Interviewer: Eh, close enough. Why did you join House of Spades?
Yarkoni: I guess I was bored.
Interviewer: Try again.
Yarkoni: What? Too straight forward?
Interviewer: Nope. Try again.
Yarkoni: Because playing guitar in my room by myself is fucking tragic?
Interviewer: Survey says? Nope. Give it another shot.
Yarkoni: … I wanted to have a good time.
Interviewer: Bingo.
Yarkoni: Not that it really worked out. All I do is look for a good time in the most self-destructive way possible which leads me down a rabbit hole of shitty dates, pounding hangovers, and bad days.
Interviewer: What is a bad day?
Yarkoni: It's exactly what it sounds like. It's a day which is bad. You know, like most days.
Interviewer: That's kind of a cop out.
Yarkoni: Oh, like you have a better answer.
Interviewer: I'm not the one getting interviewed, but I'll give you a hand. What makes a bad day bad?
Yarkoni: Something shitty happens on them.
Interviewer: But good things also happen on shitty days, right?
Yarkoni: Usually they're not all that memorable.
Interviewer: Then what about good days? What makes a good day?
Yarkoni: A day when something bad doesn't happen?
Interviewer: Far too simple.
Yarkoni: Fine! It's a day when I don't get burnt!
Interviewer: Ah, there we go. A real fuckin' answer.
Yarkoni: But that's why there's no good days. I'm always burning. I'm running around with my head on fire because the moment I put it out I remember how cold everything is and I want to light up again.
Interviewer: And now we're back to the shitty follow ups.
Yarkoni: What? You're trying to make me feel bad for feeling bad?
Interviewer: I'm trying to make you feel bad for thinking about everything in such discrete, binary chunks. Makes it way too easy to fall into spirals in your own head if everything keeps sticking to straight rules.
Yarkoni: Lecturing me about wanting to keep things in order… there's a kind of irony there. Most of the decisions I make have like, negative thought put into them.
Interviewer: Oh but you do want order or at least some goddamn consistency. You want everything to make sense so bad that you actively reject that part of you and just cause chaos anyways.
Yarkoni: Is that what you want me to say a bad day is?
Interviewer: Good days, bad days, it's all just shit our mind makes up to fool us into thinking the world makes sense. But you should know by now that the world doesn't follow rules. It doesn't give two shits about consistency. There's magic and cyborgs and portals to another dimension. The universe is infinitely harder to control than anyone gives it credit for.
Yarkoni: But that still doesn't mean I couldn't have made better decisions.
Interviewer: Will you stop it with the blame game already?
Yarkoni: I was born on fucking Staten Island and I've barely left the east coast! I've spent most of my life tied to this one fucking city, and everyone I've met in it either hates me or just refuses to see me. How could I not have done better?
Interviewer: I'm not saying there wasn't more you could do, I'm saying that even the thought of blaming yourself is a fucking poison you've gladly downed.
Yarkoni: From what? From hanging around my friends? From dealing with magic? From living in SoHo? Then I could've just made better decisions to avoid that shit, and kept my damn sanity!
Interviewer: It's not just the magic. It's not just the BackDoor. It's everything New York City stands for. "If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere". You you you. In the eyes of the city, it's all up to you. If you succeed, it was on your own two feet, and if you fail its because your legs gave out from under you. It's a toxic place. There's no room for tripping over a crack in the sidewalk, or getting pushed from behind. Because most of the time, people don't just fall on their own. But in The Big Apple, that doesn't matter, because apparently, everything is your fault.
Yarkoni sniffles.
Yarkoni: So?
Interviewer: So… you did good. You tried hard, you fell down a few times, you made a few dumb mistakes, but you did good.
Yarkoni: Ok… I guess. Not sure why you're telling me that now. I've already kind of thrown away my chance at not blaming myself.
Interviewer: It's just, you know, advice. So you're not too hard on yourself next time.
Yarkoni: Next time?
Interviewer: Haven't you noticed? Your audience wants an encore. They want more House of Spades. They want more of you.
The rope falls from Yarkoni's hands. She brings them around in front of the chair to show she's holding her guitar. She looks up at the camera. Her eyes are red and tears have dried on her cheeks.
Yarkoni: More of me?
Interviewer: Fuck yeah girl. How many times do I have to tell you? You have the body of a super model, the voice of an angel, and the cluelessness of a small child. People love that shit.
Yarkoni: I'm not sure I believe you.
Interviewer: Sure. But maybe you'll believe them.
Yarkoni stands from the chair. She takes two steps forward, and the camera pans to show a microphone, and a roaring audience. Most of the faces are too covered in backlit shadow to be identified, however Bijhan █████████, Jack of Spades, and Isabella Kawajiri can all be seen in the first row. Yarkoni opens her mouth to say something, but then looks back at the camera.
Yarkoni: That's a cruel trick…
Interviewer: Yeah. It is.
Yarkoni: Why'd you do it?
Interviewer: Nuh-uh-uh, I'm asking questions. Now, last one. Why'd you do it?
Yarkoni: Because I hated myself?
Interviewer: Nope, nope. C'mon, have you not been listening to me? Try it again.
Yarkoni swallows.
Yarkoni: Because loving people is terrifying?
Interviewer: There it is, you dork.
Yarkoni: They want me to do good. Don't they?
Interviewer: You've already done good. Now they just want to hear you sing.
Yarkoni bites her lip.
Yarkoni: Could you uh, count us in?
Interviewer: It'd be my pleasure. A-one. A-two. A-two-three-four-five!


[US] sodacola: aight I'm on lol.
[US] mjrbummer: cool
[US] mjrbummer: joining in a minute. be sure to join a relatively empty lobby so we can 1v1
[US] sodacola: dude
[US] sodacola: get in here LMFAO
[US] sodacola: I think theres like a bot that just isnt working on the server
[US] mjrbummer: i thought we wanted to play without bots
[US] sodacola: trust me just join
[US] mjrbummer: uh aight man

user MJRBUMMER connected to CENTRALIA HEIGHTS US at 5:44am

ACTIVE PLAYERS
thep0dm4ng - 33ms
sodacola - 46ms
mjrbummer - 24ms

[N/A] thep0dm4ng: i am
[N/A] thep0dm4ng: i am the STALLION
[US] sodacola: yes you are
[N/A] thep0dm4ng: i am the fucking STALLION, MANG!!
[N/A] thep0dm4ng: you crazy son of a bitch goddamn motherfucker do you know who youre fucking with?? :D
[US] mjrbummer: ???
[US] sodacola: hes been doing this since i got on
[N/A] thep0dm4ng: youre fucking with the STALLION mang, youre fucking with the GODDAMN STALLION, MANG!! :D
[US] sodacola: just
[US] sodacola: just talking about being "the stallion"
[US] sodacola: over and over
[N/A] thep0dm4ng: RUNNING THROUGH THE MEADOW
[US] sodacola: jumping in a corner and shooting a wall
[US] mjrbummer: shoot him
[N/A] thep0dm4ng: S-T-A-L-L-I-O-N
[N/A] thep0dm4ng: WHO ARE YOU DEANER?
[US] sodacola: im scared
[US] sodacola: look at how many fucking kills he has
[US] mjrbummer: jesus christ
[US] mjrbummer: p0d how long have you been on for
[US] sodacola: >inb4 "i am the stallion mang"
[N/A] thep0dm4ng: youre fucking with the STALLION mang!! :D
[US] sodacola: maybe hes afk and he just has like a script that does this shit??
[US] mjrbummer: hit him with your crowbar
[US] sodacola: you do it
[US] mjrbummer: ok
===thep0dm4ng totally FRAGGED mjrbummer!!===
[US] sodacola: jesus fucking christ
*DEAD*[US] mjrbummer: that was INSTANT
[US] sodacola: hes back to jumping and shooting the corner again
[US] mjrbummer: yeah
[N/A] thep0dm4ng: im the fucking STALLION, mang!! :D
[US] sodacola: lemme try
===thep0dm4ng totally FRAGGED sodacola!!===
[N/A] thep0dm4ng: prancing stallion, over hillside!! :D
[US] mjrbummer: i dont think those are binds
[US] mjrbummer: hes pausing before he sends chats
[N/A] thep0dm4ng: goddamn piece of shit!! :D
[US] mjrbummer: ahaha guess what hes doing now
[US] sodacola: jumping in the corner and shooting the wall? how does he still even have ammo
[US] mjrbummer: he was tea bagging you but now hes in the corner jumping and shooting the wall again lol
[US] sodacola: fuck this
[US] sodacola: im getting the crossbow and just headshotting him
[N/A] thep0dm4ng: you crazy son of the bitch im the STALLION…MANG!! :D
===thep0dm4ng totally FRAGGED sodacola!!===
[US] sodacola: how.
[US] mjrbummer: to be completely fair
[US] mjrbummer: you completely laid out your plan in chat
[US] mjrbummer: btw he left the corner
[US] mjrbummer: no clue where he went
===thep0dm4ng totally FRAGGED sodacola!!===
[US] mjrbummer: lol
*DEAD* [US] sodacola: he literally cant be a bot
[US] sodacola: he knew exactly when i was going to pull the trigger
[US] sodacola: he is playing mind games with me
===thep0dm4ng totally FRAGGED sodacola!!===
[N/A] thep0dm4ng: youre fucking with the STALLION, MANG!! :D
===thep0dm4ng totally FRAGGED sodacola!!===
*DEAD* [US] sodacola: are you fucking serious i barely got out of spawn
[US] sodacola: its a real 1v1 now istg
[US] mjrbummer: lmfao good luck mang
[US] mjrbummer: man*
[US] mjrbummer: sorry hes getting to me
[US] mjrbummer: hes on the move fr like hes just running circles around me literally
[N/A] thep0dm4ng: :D
===thep0dm4ng totally FRAGGED sodacola!!===
*DEAD*[US] sodacola: FUCK
===thep0dm4ng totally FRAGGED sodacola!!===
[N/A] thep0dm4ng: youre fucking with the STALLION!! :D
[US] mjrbummer: i suggest you stop fucking with the stallion, mang
[US] mjrbummer: that time it was on purpose B)
[US] sodacola: shut the fuck up
[US] sodacola: this guy
===thep0dm4ng totally FRAGGED sodacola!!===
*DEAD* [US] sodacola: FUCKK
[N/A] thep0dm4ng: youre fucking…with the STALLION…..MANG!! :D
===thep0dm4ng totally FRAGGED sodacola!!===
===thep0dm4ng totally FRAGGED sodacola!!===
===thep0dm4ng totally FRAGGED sodacola!!===
===thep0dm4ng totally FRAGGED sodacola!!===
===thep0dm4ng totally FRAGGED sodacola!!===
===thep0dm4ng totally FRAGGED sodacola!!===
*DEAD*[US] sodacola: its gotten to that point im officially calling hackusations
[US] sodacola: how can you be this fucking good with the tau cannon
===mjrbummer totally FRAGGED thep0dm4ng!!===
[US] sodacola: HOW??
[US] mjrbummer: honestly i think he knows how mad hes making you
[US] mjrbummer: i think he just let me kill him to piss you off
[US] sodacola: if thats it
[US] sodacola: its fucking working
===thep0dm4ng totally FRAGGED sodacola!!===
===thep0dm4ng totally FRAGGED sodacola!!===
[N/A] thep0dm4ng: youre fucking with the STALLION, mang!! :D
*DEAD* [US] sodacola: trying one more time
===thep0dm4ng totally FRAGGED sodacola!!===
*DEAD* [US] sodacola: i quit
[N/A] thep0dm4ng: :D

user SODACOLA disconnected from CENTRALIA HEIGHTS US at 06:03am

[US] mjrbummer: well played man
[N/A] thep0dm4ng: he fucked with the STALLION, MANG!! :D
[US] mjrbummer: alright he wants me to leave too
[US] mjrbummer: add me on steam youre p funny
[N/A] thep0dm4ng: o/ :D

user MJRBUMMER disconnected from CENTRALIA HEIGHTS US at 06:05am

[N/A] thep0dm4ng: you crazy son of a bitch
[N/A] thep0dm4ng: goddamn motherfucker
[N/A] thep0dm4ng: do you know who youre fucking with?
[N/A] thep0dm4ng: youre fucking with the stallion mang
[N/A] thep0dm4ng: youre fucking with the goddamn stallion
[N/A] thep0dm4ng: mang
[N/A] thep0dm4ng: youre fucking with the stallion mang
[N/A] thep0dm4ng: goddamn piece of shit
[N/A] thep0dm4ng: on my dick you should sit
[N/A] thep0dm4ng: do you know who youre fucking with?
[N/A] thep0dm4ng: prancing stallion over hillside
[N/A] thep0dm4ng: prancing on the grass
[N/A] thep0dm4ng: im the fucking stallion mang
[N/A] thep0dm4ng: the stallion
[N/A] thep0dm4ng: im the fucking
[N/A] thep0dm4ng: THE STALLION
[N/A] thep0dm4ng: :D


by Kilerpoyo and NDHeckfire

The following is a notebook that was originally recovered in Mykolaiv, Ukraine by Foundation agents during attempts to capture and recontain an unrelated anomaly. It was noticed by Dr. Bellatrix Fuller that the document's contents have close similarities to the origins of SCP-6232. Investigations are still ongoing.

Entry 1
One time, a poet said “There are men that fight one day and are good, others fight one year and they're better, and there are those who fight many years and are very good, but there are the ones who fight their whole lives and those are the indispensable ones…”
A beautiful thought, but a naive one. Because, for the war that is coming, it is not going to be enough to fight all our lives. We already did. Now we have to fight beyond that. And I have been tasked to find those who had been brought back to keep fighting till the last war.
I would not believe have I hadn't lived myself. The first thing I remember was being torn from the void of non-existence, right into the flesh and bones. I found myself surrounded by ominous men in black robes and mirror-like masks. I could see myself reflected in their faces, breaking my identity into infinite fractals. But who I was? I knew I was someone, I must be someone. However, I could not recall anything about myself.
One of the masked stepped towards me. He conducted himself with the dignity of those courtiers from a long-forgotten age. He spoke to me in a voice that sounded only half-human.
"I know you are wondering about yourself. Let me enlighten you: You are nothing but a mere reflection of a man of courage and virtue, once known as Chiune Sugihara. You have been brought back to find others like you and bring them together to protect mankind."

"There are Three Horrors that have vowed to subjugate mankind. Beware what you see even with your own eyes, as the Nameless Horror plays with the sight and dreams of men. Don't trust the grass where you stand and the life that sprouts from the earth, because it may be under the influence of the Sunless Horror. And don't believe recorded history, since even time itself is bound to the whims of the Bloodless Horror."
"You are the Defender of the Beaten, who risked everything to save those who could not defend themselves. You must find those who are Reflections of past great men, who defended humanity in their life and will keep defending it till the last dream fades away. Find the Breaker of Chains and his Herald, who gave their own lives for the freedom of others. Find the Heir of the Fallen Empire, who keep the war going even after everything was lost. Find the Mother of Machines, who defied every expectation to birth a miracle. And Find the Queen of Hearts, who sacrificed the one most precious to her for the common good of her people."
"To aid you in this quest we present three gifts. This is the Gun of the Abyss, everyone touched by its bullets will not die but will wish to be dead. This is the Compass of Huracán, as long as your mind and heart are clear it will guide you to what you seek, though you should be careful since some things wish not to be found. And this typewriter is called the Merovingian, don't write anyone's name on it unless you are ready to live with it."
"One last thing before you go. Do not trust those who have appointed themselves as Jailers of the Unknown, since they will do nothing but interfere with your mission. Now go, Reflection of a once-great man, may the Glory of Humankind always shine on you."
As soon as he had ended pronouncing those last words, I found myself engulfed in a sea of darkness. For a time that may have been eons or may have been seconds, I felt myself travel across the Neverwhere until I found myself lying on a hard surface. I opened my eyes to see the tiny lights of a starry night. I was, once again, on Earth.

Entry 2
The city I found myself in was called Mykolaiv. I slowly started to recall half-forgotten truths about the world of man. For some time I wandered the street, marveled by the wonders of humanity. Some kind folks must have mistaken for some vagrant, for they gave me some money for food and accommodation. Since I had discovered myself to be impervious to both hunger and thirst, I decided to spend the money on this notebook on which I know to write these words. I have myself a nice spot in the central park, under the cover of a beautiful tree. A night of peaceful sleep awaits me…
Entry 3
I have been attacked by that god-forsaken tree!!! I was awoken from deepest sleep to find its wicket roots constricting me. I manage to break free from that treacherous plant. I have spent some of my money on a room in a nearby inn. Nothing fanciful, just a comfortable bed, a firm desk to write, and a nice house plant to keep a lively touch. I can have now a night of rightful rest.
Entry 4
That devil-spawned bastardized plant tried to strangle me in my sleep!!! My hands shake from the horror as try to record what just happened, in a maybe futile attempt to keep my sanity. I remember having the most peculiar dream. I was wandering, lost in a maze of twisted trees when I found myself chased by a frightening figure. It looked like a man, but it was taller and covered in dark fur. I was desperately trying to run from it, but the woods bent and twisted their branches to cut my escape. The dark figure approached me and started strangling me with its monstrous paws. My consciousness faded as I gasped for air. With the last of my strength, I managed to violently shake my arms and freed myself. I opened my eyes to find the broken branches of the plant all over my bed. What is the name of Heaven is happening?!
Entry 5
The compass is pointing towards random directions. It seems that unless my heart is at peace and knows what it wants, it won't work properly.
Some of the pages of the documents seem to be missing.

Entry 8
A cactus? A goddam cactus?! How can have missed that goddam cactus in the corner?!
More missing pages.
Entry 15
I finally have information on the location of the Queen of Hearts. My life is much easier now that I have adopted the habit of burning every dammed plant in every room I enter. I keep having strange dreams where those furry figures watch me from a distance. As long as there are no plants near me, they can not touch me. However, that has not been the end of my troubles. To get the information on the Queen of Hearts, I'm afraid I had to strike a deal with some unsavory fellows. His name is Ivan Petrov, the local leader of an organization called the Black Lodge. He said he is not afraid of using his real name, since everyone here knows what happens to those who mess with the Lodge. Not even the local police dare to step in the wair. They have charged an unreasonable amount of money for the information on her, money which I, of course, do not have. My only hope is that they don't find my ruse until I have a chance to escape.
Entry 16
They have found my ruse!!!!
Missing pages.
Entry 20
I found myself with no other option but to use the Gun of the Abyss of some of Ivan's goons. I pitied their souls as a saw them crawling in horror. The bullets from the abyss pierce not the flesh but the soul, exposing it to the naked horrors from the Neverwhere. I pray to whatever gods there may be that I never have to put another soul through that torment.

Entry 21
DIEEE!!!!!!! DIE!!!!!!!!!!!! DIEEEEEE you stupid fucking PLAAAANT!!!!
Incoherent scribling.
Entry 25
Ivan and his goons ambushed me and managed to take away my gun. They were planning to gut me alive and feed my entrails to their pets. However, I convinced Ivan that I could write him a check for an unreasonable amount of money, should he let me use my typewriter. The poor man agreed; too much greed and too little brain. I close my eyes as I wrote his name on the Merovingian. I only heard his screams, which will haunt me for years to come. I finally opened my eyes and I could not dare to describe the scene I witnessed or the state of Ivan's remains. I prefer to never speak of that again. The goons fleed the scene, surely fearing for their lives. I am in a quest to save mankind from indescribable horror, however, is it necessary for me to become a horror as well? At last, I am free to continue. My mind and heart are in tune, the compass points in the right direction, and now I can find the Queen of Hearts…
Entry 26
THE WOODS?!!! SHE'S IN THE GODDAMN WOODS?!!!!! FOR FUCK SAKE!!!!!!!

A Night in the Woods

A Curious Case of Botanophobia

Coming soon!


Looping in the air, fantastic acrobatics, her angel wings flapping while she flew over an audience in complete awe. Eyes focused on her, amazed by such a delicate and majestic creature. The lion-scorpion hybrids, the manticores, roared on the ground under her. Floating in the air, she saw that horrid aura, an ill amalgam of sad and desperate feelings. It was her chance to show her value, her power.
She got that person in her arms and brought them to the center of the circus. Her objective was for the manticores to touch that individual, to cure them of their worst feelings, but it wasn't the result. She was so tired, so exhausted. The beasts became wild, the people ran, the poor subject of the presentation was dead. The pain, the suffering, everything. The spotlights turned off, she was in the dark. From a distance, the glowing and furious eyes of the ringleader started following her. She ran, she flew, she tried to escape, but it was useless. That monstrous man, with his bare hands, plucked her wings off.
She screamed in pain, but no one helped her, no one cared. She was alone, bleeding, crying, hurt not only physically, but emotionally too.

She woke up from that nightmare. A recurrent nightmare, indeed. Looking to her side, he was still sleeping, unaware of his lover's night horrors. She preferred that he kept that way. If he knew the atrocities that happened to her, he would be so shocked, so desperate. It was better that way.
Ding dong.
What was that? The doorbell? She looked at the clock near the bed. 3 AM. Who would be at her door at three in the morning on a Wednesday?
Ding dong.
She looked around, searching for a weapon to defend herself. A baseball bat, from her husband's college years. Perfect. Courageous, now armed, she went down the stairs, to the living room, and then to the front door. Getting close to the entrance, she looked through the peephole.
Ding dong.
The curious visitor was an old man, tousled and dirty hair, scars all over his body. With a wooden leg, an eye patch, and a hook, he looked just like a pirate. With his only hand, the left one, he held a big and heavy egg with red spots, a manticore egg.
"Why are you here?" she simply asked, not even mentioning opening the door.
"The circus is in the town," he replied, his voice hoarse and weak. "I thought about visiting you."
She took some seconds to think. Scared that it was a bad idea, he started getting away from the house before noticing the door opening.
"Come in," her voice low. She gave space for him to enter the house and guided him to the living room. Both sat at different sofas, far from each other, not even looking in the other's direction.
There came a long silence, an uncomfortable and nervous silence. The time and the distance made them complete strangers to each other. They were close to each other, family, but that was before. Now they were different people, not the girl that he knew or the man that she knew. The soundlessness was broken by a timid cough.
"So, how are you doing?" The old man started the conversation again, hugging the enormous egg on his lap.
"I am fine." She answered emotionlessly. She tried to be cold at least. "Why did you come here?"
"I just said, the circus is in town." he forced a laugh, anxious with the negative energy of that dialogue. "Also, it's almost Christmas! I just wanted to see my…"
She interrupted him. "That's okay, but why… this?" and pointed at the egg, curious.
He was happy that she asked. "Oh, it's my gift!"
"A manticore egg? A Christmas present? You know that if I kept one of those here, the ess cee pees would get me."
"Ess cee pee?" his eyes rolled as he crossed his arms. "An ess cee pee never got a cold from us! We are circus people!"
"You are circus people."
Those words broke his heart. She was denying her origins. His mouth opened and closed time after time as he tried to formulate an answer to that blasphemous assertion, incredulous that he had just heard that. Before he could even speak, she continued.
"I think you should go."
"No, no!" He simply screamed before she could shush him, fearing that anyone could wake up.
"I can't be remembered of–"
"He's not the owner anymore." He was fast, saying that in an attempt to get her attention.
"What?" Her voice fainted, she became shallow with that revelation.
"Icky, Manny and Lolly are commanding the circus now." He got closer to her as her eyes got full of tears. Tears of hope.
"What happened to him?" Her face was that of disbelief. She couldn't understand if he was saying that seriously, even if sure that the man would never lie to her. The crooked mind that broke her from inside out was no more. She wanted to know the truth, she wanted to know the fate of her tormentor, the origin of her nightmares.
"No one knows for certain." He sadly admitted. "Some say that the clowns got rid of him, others that he ran away. I even hear someone saying that I gave him the manticores to eat. No, they would never eat anything that bad." and as he thought about it, he continued. "But if I could, I'd do so. That was what he deserved."
She was motionless. Tears ran down her face. As she was going to say something, a cry started. He was surprised at first, then inquisitive. It was the sound of a baby. As she ran up the stairs, into a room, he unhanded the egg over the sofa and followed her even if uninvited. It was a pinkish room, full of teddy bears and dolls. The characteristic odor of baby powder invaded his nose. On a crib, at the back of the room, a tiny little baby girl was calling for her mother.
"Is that…"
"My daughter." She said while getting the child in her arms. The baby had the same blue eyes and golden hair that her mother had. As she nursed the baby girl, she didn't notice him wiping the tears from his own face with his sleeve wrist, moved by the situation.
"Why didn't you talk to me about her? You should have sent a letter!"
She couldn't think about a proper response. There was no answer beyond the fact that she wanted to stay away from something that was not even there anymore. He held out his hands in the baby's direction. Hesitantly, she gave the child for him to hold. The old man soothed the baby with a lullaby.
"My sweet angel, I know our past, and I'm infinitely sorry about it." He looked at the proud mother, smiling even behind the tears. "But I don't want to be away from you. I am your father, I am the one that took care of you. Please, let me have another chance to be your father, to be a grandfather, and to be a father-in-law. Please!"
She reflected on that scene. Her old and raggedy father is holding her baby, crying and begging for another chance. Could she forgive and forget all the trauma that she had? The scars on her back, the scars in her heart? Should she accept him back in her life as nothing happened?

She took the cooked turkey out of the oven, putting it over the kitchen table. As she did so, the little girl ran inside, followed by a strange creature, a lion cub with a scorpion's tail, that played with the child, just like a little dog. She smiled at the duo as they exited the room, following to the backyard.
"We're almost at dinner's time! Don't stay outside for too long!" and she received a positive answer.
Carrying the food to the dining room, she was intercepted by a tall, slender and pale humanoid that looked at her. The creature silently offered itself to take the turkey to the table, which she accepted by lending it the platter.
"Thanks, Mr. Noodles!"
As she went to the living room, she greeted some of the night's visitors. A man with an upside-down face, two friendly clown girls, a slug-man, a fish-man, the living head of a lady. As she called her husband, her in-laws came together, visibly afraid of their daughter-in-law's family. She didn't care. Finally, she was happy, she was back with her loved ones.
And that big and happy family had a marvelous Christmas feast together.


toadking07

This tale was written for Ralliston for the 2021 SCP art gift exchange. It took me a few days to figure out what I want to write for this as Ralliston had left it open as to how Director Alistair Vemhoff was explored. After some help from international fans, this short but sweet tale came to be. Happy holidays to all, may you remember to slow down and live life while you're here.

Director Alistair Vemhoff sighed and rubbed his eyes. It was getting late, and he had read just about as much ancient Latin as he could stand for one day. "Béni soit celui qui a inventé la ponctuation moderne." Folding his glasses neatly, he turned his tablet off and stood up from his desk. At 145 years old, he was finally beginning to feel his age.
Even with the latest Foundation treatments, human life can only be prolonged for so many years. Not that he would ever complain. He hadn't needed reading glasses until well into his 80s. He ran his last half marathon on his 101st birthday. His hair had only begun to thin in the previous 20 years as the youth treatment became less effective. But it wasn't just the physical process of aging he felt; the passage of time was measurable all around him.
He had watched as the once provisional site grew into one of the staple facilities in the Northern Hemisphere. The generations of personnel that had come and gone as Site-120 came into its own. There was a time when Alistair personally knew everyone onsite. Now, he felt lucky if he recognized even half the faces that passed him in the hall. Although to be fair, there were hundreds currently working on more projects than he had time to keep up with himself. "Beris droojno, ne boodett groozno."
Though the site's project list had expanded, his own workload had slowed down considerably. Gone were the days of working until the sun came up, pouring over book after book in hopes of understanding the secrets hidden within the pages of the impossibly ancient library. Of the three million books it housed, only thirty thousand-some were in known languages. When they had started the work, Alistair was fluent in 40, or just 0.98% of written languages. Even before considering the damage caused by the Fae militia attack, headway was slow. But all of that was one hundred years ago, and just like language, one must grow and expand or be lost to history.
*PING* Alistair's phone went off in his pocket. One of the many aspects of this prolonged youth treatment he was grateful for was the gift of an elastic mind. Staying up on technology had become somewhat of a hobby of his. Stopping in the hall to check his phone, Director Vemhoff probably looked to the passing personnel as if he was about to open an essential message from the O5 council. However, if any of them had dared to look at his screen, they would have seen the Discord app loading.
"Hey! Você está disponível para a sessão de hoje à noite?"
"Sinto muito, eu estava trabalhando até tarde, estou cansado."
"Não te preocupes velho :P"
"Are you free tomorrow? poderíamos estudar durante a pausa do almoço."
"De acordo, vovô, conversaremos mais tarde"
Gonçalo was a good kid and patient enough to work with Alistair's busy schedule. Overlooking the casual tone and patronizing "old man" nickname, Alistair was grateful to have someone to converse with who was also learning the language. Up until now, Portuguese had been the only one of the Romance languages he hadn't gotten to. Of course, there was always more work to do, more languages to learn, but he would do that tomorrow. It had taken him half a lifetime, but Alistair had finally learned to call it a day.
When they had started in 1916, he had been driven by the desire to translate the vast library of SCP-5292. Some were easy enough, requiring only the tedious task of transferring text. Others, though, contained lost languages or veered off from known history. Despite the challenges, his teams had made good progress as the decades went on. However, it wasn't until they had reached 46% translated in 1971 that they made a breakthrough: An entire section of books had been written in languages previously held to have been spoken only. Deciphering that had been a fantastic discovery but one that set them back 18 years. "C'est la vie."
The work was slow but rewarding—word by word, page by page, book by book, shelf by shelf. The library changed from something unknowable to something familiar, known, almost like home. And as each volume was painstakingly recorded and cataloged, Director Alistair Vemhoff became more aware of the passage of time. Personnel he had trained began to retire around him. Technological advances he had only read in science fiction were now in the palm of his hand. And yet the great "Library of Babel" remained the same. Beyond the books, the only two constants in those halls were Alistair himself and SCP-5292-2, the entity known as "The Keeper."
The hooded, ethereal entity tied to the library's non-Euclidean space was "David, brother to Noe," or just David, as the years went on. David had kept Alistair company during many late nights, the one familiar face in an endless ocean of change. Though the entity could not assist with the translation work, a begrudging companionship had evolved into something resembling a friendship over the last century.
The two of them weren't much for talking about their personal lives, but they could talk about the days gone by like old friends. David had been there when Director Alistair Vemhoff had only been a Research Head. He'd been there when Foundation had discovered the library buried underneath the mines. And, if "The Keeper" was to be believed, he was there when the library's first stone was laid. And would be there long after humanity was a distant memory.
It still sat sourly with Alistair how Rivera was thrown under the bus after the Fae Triumviraté attack. The Director Council had painted her as a hot-headed leader in the narrative handed down in the aftermath. Alistar had gone with it, but as personnel transferred to the site, the number who had known the real Riveria diminished. Eventually, the crafted lore of the site was all they knew. Not her determination, not her drive towards the unknown, not the very human leader that had a vision for this buried anomaly. Just a character in a story designed to be a lesson to inspire unity and raise morale in personnel.
As Director Alistair Vemhoff settled in for the night, he thought of Rivera, of "The Keeper," and Gonçalo; Past, present, and future. Those who had made Site-120 what it was today, those who shaped what it would be tomorrow, and those who would decide what it would mean to history. Turning off the lights of his home, he wondered how he would be remembered, though such thoughts did not lend themselves to peaceful nights, so he did not dwell on them long. He had lived an extraordinary life, much longer than most. It was one of many faces, many stories, and many years, and he could not be more thankful for that. "Tovim Ha'Shnaim Min Ha'Ehad"


Forum » General Discussion

BigFaceisReal 03/08/2008 (Fri) 02:24:53 #13579245

So I'm ready, I´m finally going on my "Bigfoot Photographic Expedition". Guy, I'm so excited, been planning this for so many months. I got all my new camera and gears. This is going to be so badass. I'm feeling really lucky guys, I'm to photograph that mf so hard hahahah

BigBrainTime 03/08/2008 (Fri) 02:24:53 #1357927

Good luck you crazy old bastard

Forum » User Experience » Thread Post 64

BigFaceisReal 07/09/2008 (Fri) 02:24:53 #13579246

Hi guys, so I have been missing for a few weeks and I know you all have been worried about me. I have been reading all your messages and I know you are concerned. And yes, I told you I was going to update you about my "Bigfoot Photographic Expedition" as soon as got back to civilization and I didn't. And I'm really sorry for making you all worried but, I just needed time to process things. I wasn't sure if I was going to make this post and tell you the insane shit that just happened to me. I'm worried you are going to think I'm fucking crazy and, tbf, I'm also not sure if I have finally lost it. But to hell with it. We are supposed to be truth-seekers and… this is the truth.
A few weeks ago I went to the Rocky Mountains near Helena, Montana. I was told this was the perfect spot to catch a picture of the Sasquatch. So when I got there I was really excited. I put my camp and got myself a sweet spot to wait with my camera. And I wait and I wait for a few days… and nothing… I was getting really bummed so I decided to pack my stuff and go home. Maybe pass to some FiveGuys along the way. I was just finishing packing my camera when I heard a cracking sound behind me. My blood felt cold and I slowly turned back…
Okay, bear with me, just a few meters in front of me, there was, I'm shitting you not, Bigfoot. Well, I believe it was Bigfoot. It was big and furry and looked like an ape but stood like a human. But what I remember the most was its eyes. It had black dead eyes. It was like staring at a void, a void that stares you back. It looked at me and I felt its contempt. I'm almost sure I was nothing to him but a bug. It turned back and started walking away so I rushed to get my camera. I had fucking Sasquatch in front of me and I had to take this picture…
Anyways, this is where the crazy part starts. I mean it gets really crazier. I was going to take the picture when a tree hit me. You know, like the second hp movie when a fucking tree starts beating the shit out of them? Well, just like that a branch of a tree moved a hit me in the stomach. I dropped the camera. I was confused. I looked around, BF was gone, but the trees had just started. Suddenly all the branches of every nearby were over me, beating the shit out of me. They even got to my neck and started suffocating me. I almost passed out.
And then, suddenly I was free. The branches had been cut off. It happened so fast. I heard a sound, like something sharp cutting through the air and wood and I was free. I fell to the ground, gasping for air. I was just recovering when I heard her voice:
"You're hurt"
I looked up and right next to me there was this woman. She was impressive. She looked like the cross between a beauty queen and MMA fighter. She was dressed in a white suit that contrasted heavily with her dark skin. She wielded a very weird weapon, it was some kind of knife/axe hybrid. I stared at this woman in disbelief, not sure what to do or say next. But she was right, I was hurt, my body was all bruised I think I had some broken ribs. I hurt like hell. Then I realized the trees were still moving, they were closing into us, crushing all my stuff and they were going to crush us.
The woman just stood calmly and she just produce a music box from who-knows-where. She started playing it and a very odd melody came from it. It sounded like some sort of futuristic polka. Anyways, just as the melody played the plants started going back to normal. She finished the melody and looked around. The woods were just woods again.
"What did you do? What's that?" I asked, pointing to the music box.
"This is the Choir of Sheba. It knows three songs. The first one can close the gates of time. The second one, which you just heard, can free the flora from the influence of the Sunless Horror. And Third, I could not tell, for I do not desire harm upon you."
"Amm… thanks? So who are you?"
"They used to call me Moremi. Now I´m just a Reflection… you are hurt. Do you have some water?"
"Sure, there should be a bottle in my backpack."
She took the bottle from my backpack and poured it into a wooden chalice. Now that I think about it., I don't know where did she got that chalice from. Man, this was so weird.
"Drink it, you will be better."
"It's just water…" I argued, but tbf I was thirsty so I drank it. But, suddenly, all the pain was gone. I stood up and looked at my body. The bruises were gone. My ribs felt fine. It was like nothing had ever happened.
"What did you put in this water?"
"It is not the liquid but the container. You just drank from the Chalice of Dhanvantari. Anyone who dranks from it will have all of their ailments cured."
So I have just seen Bigfoot, killer plants, this mysterious woman, and now… a magic chalice?
"Anyways you should be going. The Sunless Horror was just scouting, he must have already alerted them of my presence here."
"The Sunless Horror? You mean the Bigfoot?"
"They were looking for me. The Bloodless Horror must be on its way. I have an unfinished business with them from my past life."
"I have no idea what you are talking about…"
Then, because of course, it happened, a motherfucking portal or some sort of thing appeared in the middle of my camp. It was like a ripple in time and space itself.
"You must hide, now!" She said.
I obeyed and hide in the nearby bushes. But I could not help myself from watching what was happening. A group of men emerged from the portal. They had strange armor and weapons. The looked like straight out of a cheesy fantasy movie. Their armor was red and spiky, it looked insectoid. They wield long spears and curved blades. The men surrounded the woman, pointing the weapons towards her.
They spoke to her in a language I could not recognize, but I believe they were demanding her to throw her weapon. She answered them defiantly. She raised her weapon and threw it. It got stuck in a nearby tree. Suddenly, the woman was gone. The men were as confused as I was. I looked to the tree where the weapon has been stuck. The woman war there, holding the weapon. It was as she had just teleported to it. The men were angry and started approaching here, weapons ready. She just took her music box and started playing a melody. It reminded me of electro swing. The men started to be pulled to the portal. They were all sucked into it and when the music was over the portal was gone.
I got of my hiding spot and shouted "Wait!" but it was too late.
The woman had already thrown her weapon and suddenly she was gone.
I pack what was left of my stuff and went back to my car. I just drove like a zombie until I reached home. I spend a few weeks pondering what the hell had just happened. Am just crazy? Maybe I don't fucking now. But I do know what saw. What I'm telling you is the truth!
TL/DR:
I went looking for Bigfoot and I found Bigfoot, but I also got in the middle of some sort of interdimensional war.

TheBiteof87 07/09/2008 (Fri) 02:24:53 #13579246

I believe you… I believe you should go to a fuckin shrink

BiBrainTime 07/09/2008 (Fri) 02:24:53 #1357927

That's an odd weapon. It sounds like a mambele, have you looked that up?

MILFofMachines 07/09/2008 (Fri) 02:24:53 #13579299

Really interesting story. Could you tell me more about this woman :3

BigFaceisReal 07/09/2008 (Fri) 02:24:53 #13579350

Well, she had some royal aura. I don't know man, I felt like if I was in the presence of a Queen. I was making a sketch, it should be on my other drive, let me go for it.

MILFofMachines 07/09/2008 (Fri) 02:24:53 #13579299

Don't worry got it already :3

BigFaceisReal 07/09/2008 (Fri) 02:24:53 #13579350

What do you mean?

MILFofMachines 07/09/2008 (Fri) 02:30:21 #13579358

queen of ❤

XOXO :3

BigFaceisReal 07/09/2008 (Fri) 02:24:53 #13579318

What the hell? Who are you?

SCP-6232

A Night in the Woods

Botanophobia


close

Info

X

NAME OF TALE Burnt Offerings

Did Mekhane lie beneath the Shining City?
This was a question that flittered about the outer quarters, its wings dipping and swooping between houses and markets. All believed in Mekhane; none could doubt, with their own eyes, the gifts they had been given. The priests of the iron-smoke shrines proclaimed her word daily, offering sacrifices rendered in copper and fuladh scraps to the Throne's treasuries.
But was she there? Was she really beneath the earth? There were those who began to form the beginnings of a new doctrine. Had Mekhane ever visited this world at all? Was she truly formed of metal and iron, or was she a thing of spirit, an ideal form to which they were striving for? Was fuladh, too, impure?
The priests did not know what to do with these new ideas. There were no formal doctrines concerning heresy. There had never been a reason. What need did they have to coerce their citizens when Mekhane's gifts stood all around them? Many did not want to do anything. Their purpose was sacrifice and service, not theology. That was for the academics and thinkers in their vast skyscrapers, and they had little true authority. The church's power was the Emperor, who had more pressing concerns.
But others saw something else in this. What was this impurity but an obsession with spirit, with the impermeable, the immaterial? Many of them had served on the frontlines. They had seen what "spirits" could do. They held the vine-scars to prove it.
The rumours fluttered on, and the priests grew jealous of their flock.

Horticulture had not been a popular pursuit in Amoni-Ram for many years. The war had gone on too long. Old soldiers did not want to come home only to see more greenery, more vines and shrubs lurking on their own land. So the gardens dried up, the parks were closed, and agriculture moved out to well beyond the city gates.
Atham had been a gardener. He had lost his job, of course, and had found it difficult to use his skills for anything else. All he knew was plants, how to look after them, pruning and watering, shaping beds and lawns…
So Atham withdrew from the world, living off a pittance from his clan. They preferred it that way; it would keep him quiet, keep him away. He tended his own little patch, making it green. He raised high bushes around the edge of his land, away from the other houses. Date palms loomed over wooden fences, and the sun stopped at the house's walls.

There was only a single house near him, a dozen or so yards away. The outer suburbs were a mess of run-down homes, abandoned junkyards and blasted shrubland. The sands would frequently clog up the machinery, people's augments, everything. It was not a popular neighbourhood, but the city expanded ever outwards, and not everyone could live in the high-rises.
The house had been empty for many years when Fara turned up. She came alone one day, one of the interminable days, while Atham was in his garden. He saw her draw up in a thin car, a single bronze augment creeping halfway up her arm. Her hair was covered by a scarf. She was thin, in her thirties, and unsmiling.
He didn't think much of her at first. He'd seen all sorts of people move into that house; aging widows, broken soldiers, poets trying their hand at poverty. He ignored them all, withdrawing further and further inwards, barely leaving the house at all.
But then he saw her garden, one morning on the way back from the market. There were no plants there, but she had placed a thing of iron. A twisted sculpture, reminiscent of a tree but distinct from one, dominating the centre of the plot. Around it were shrubs, bushes, wrought in steel and zinc. Each one was unique, and each contributed to the greater whole. Between them, the sand was curved into strange, precise lines.
He walked over to the fence, and leaned over it. "That's a beautiful garden," he said, thinking of nothing else to say.
She stood up, and smiled. "Thank you."

The heresy spread further and further. What if Mekhane was not beneath us? What if this was not the first Ram after all? Doubt was sewed in minds across the city, spreading, worming and twisting through the districts.
It reached the ears of the engineers, up in their tall towers. They scoffed, publically, but privately they all thought the same thing. Who had seen Mekhane? The Emperor was their god's will, but who besides the emperor had seen her? And it had been so long since the first Bumaro was on the throne. How carefully had the records really been kept?
It reached the ears of the historians, who quaked and argued and lamented. Their records, though complete, were cryptic and vague. Many were firm- too firm- in their protests. Of course this was Mekhane's rest. What else could it be? In their archives wrought from glittering fuladh, they pored, again and again, over the archives.
It reached the ears of the automata, who did not understand it, because they understood no command not directed from the Throne. But they felt it, in some distant piece of programming, and they shuddered inside. It was a hard, cold idea, with implications beyond implications they could not conceive of.
At last, it reached the ears of the Emperor. He considered it for a long time.

Over many months, Atham and Fara became close. They traded ideas on gardening, on technique. She was hesitant, predictably, to use plants in her garden, but he freely adapted her sculptures in his own designs. He managed to barter a few scraps of fuladh and wrought a twisted sculpture of a bird drinking from a fountain.
He told her about his life; his career, his clan, his decline. She was more cagy. He found out she was a Lu'ad, the largest of the clans from the northern district, with hundreds of cousins spread across its markets and roadways. But this was the south. He wondered if that was why she had come here.
Sooner or later, they got into rhythms and patterns of their own. She would always start the morning with a boiled egg, bread and coffee, that strange drink from the Empire's southern reaches. He started coming over before starting the day, chatting about the news, the weather. She, in her turn, would often lounge in his dining room each evening as he prepared dishes of chickpeas, flatbread and spice from far-distant archipelagos.
The one benefit of living on the city's outskirts was the view. The sunset burnt, carving and cutting a way into the desert, the heat rising from the daytime sand. They would sit, in one garden or another, and watch it. He'd cut down his high bushes, and the light flooded in, lapping at his crumbling walls.
Then, one night, he saw something moving through her window.

The Emperor was bored, because he was always bored. He had been bored for centuries. He could barely tell which Bumaro he was any more; they were all composites, interlocking mechanisms with only minor alterations.
He sat on his throne, staring up at the riot of colour on the ceiling. Craftsmen from across Africa and Asia had been employed in its design. It was timeless, supposedly. The augurs predicted that the remembrance of it would be ingrained and scattered to the wind, and that it would be millenia before a new empire, possessing only half a memory, would make a palace to compare.
But the Emperor knew this was wrong, because that would mean Amoni-Ram would fall. And it would never fall.
He stretched upon his throne, idly, and considered heresy. It would provide a brief diversion.
He should be angry. He could see, in his mind, in the first Bumaro's memories, the face of Mekhane. She gazed down up him. She shone with pale light. She gave him a metal leg, and carved the throne he sat on. Then she sank, slowly, into the sands, leaving only the fuladh behind.
It was true. He knew it was true - but he was not Bumaro.
Oh, he tried, they all tried. They drank each other's memories every day, trying harder and harder to align themselves with the imperial ideal. But he, and he alone, with his fist plugged into the endlessness of ancestry, knew that it could never be. There was too much there. Too much humanity.
What had happened on that day in the sands? The memories looked like a mummer's stage, too perfect, too clean. Were they real? Were they imagined? Had they been placed there afterwards? How many centuries had passed? Why was it all so fragmented?
The Emperor sighed again, and signalled to a guard to fetch his generals. It would not do. The Cult of the Broken God functioned on the Emperor's power, and without the Cult, there was just fuladh. And anyone could wield fuladh.
None of them understood what it was to be an emperor. He wondered if the barbarian kings, his sworn Daevite and Nälkan foes, were the only people in the world who could understand him. All reality was meant to emanate forward from his person, infusing everything, but it always felt the other way around; like the people had an iron grip on him, making him a tyrant or a saint in a strange dance with their true desires.
His general arrived. His mask was silver and steel. The Emperor spoke a few words, and his spears slid forth.

Fara was napping in a chair in his dining room, waiting for the meal to finish cooking. Atham was staring out of the window, at the thing moving behind the light.
It was large, shapeless - he couldn't properly make it out. But it was alive, and moving, passing to and fro in the window. He grimaced, and tightened his grip on the saucepan.
He left by the front door and slowly, carefully, made his way across to her house. The door was unlocked - but why wouldn't it be, in an area as remote as this? He entered the kitchen, and crept over to the hallway door.
Slowly, he pushed it open. There was nothing on the other side; only a dark room, with doors leading off it. Atham began to feel foolish. What if it was only nothing, just a shade his feverish mind had-
A clatter from upstrairs. Atham swore beneath his breath. He held the pan aloft, and walked up, trembling, until-
A vine was there, a huge and powerful vine. It was swaying, matching his movements. Other vines were creeping across the ceiling, and turned in his direction as he moved upwards. A strange, low hissing could be heard.
"Stop!"
Fara was standing at the top of the stairs, tears streaming down her cheeks. The vines let out an almighty hiss, before diving downwards, smashing through the floor. Atham was knocked back, choking on dust.
Brushing it out of his eyes, he leapt down and looked around. Fara was standing there - mercifully unhurt - her back to the wall, edging away from the huge, dark hole that had sprung up in her carpet.

The heresy had reached Atham as well. It reached everyone.
He did not know what to think of it. It went against everything he was taught - but, then, he was a gardener. His very purpose was, now, against everything he'd been taught.
The city shined with electricity. It heaved with fuladh, squeezing into the small places, extruding into the desert. It was like an open wound- but there were no open wounds, were there? One man's wound was another's perfection, a balm for the body, soothing the spirit through the sensation of metal on skin.
Fara was, of course, a Daevite. She was a Daevite who liked to sculpt things out of metal, and had been whipped for it. So she had fled at night, and changed, and over long miles transformed from a Daevite slave into Fara of the Lu'ad.
But her vines, her little house spirits… she couldn't just let them go…

The two of them teetered on the edge of the hole, staring downwards. Fara shuddered. "What if it goes on forever?"
Atham rubbed his chin. It was dark outside, but the lights glowed so strongly that you would hardly know. "What if Mekhane is beneath our city? What if she's at the bottom?"
Fara looked at him, and said nothing. She unwound her long scarf, and dropped it into the hole. The black swallowed it, and there was silence. She squeezed Atham's hand, and, at last, smiled.

The Emperor stared, unseeing, into space.
The heresy had dissolved almost as fast as it had begun. His general had done nothing, in the end. The historians formed a consensus, based on a unanimous decision to recognise certain early documents as fact. The scientists launched new endeavours, analysing the minutiae of the soil and determining - conveniently - that a vast concentration of metal lay deep beneath the city.
The people returned to the shrines, and the burnt offerings were held aloft once more. The priests were happy. The body politic was solid. The Emperor sat on his throne, and stared into nothing, emanating his principality once more.
One small matter had caught his attention. A house, a ramshackle thing in the outer suburbs, had disappeared. There was no record of anyone living there, but a neighbour, a man named Atham, had vanished too. The earth was reported to be angry and disturbed. A few leaves were found scattered on the soil.
The Emperor wondered if Mekhane really was below the city's surface. But then, it hardly mattered.


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Had it been only mere seconds? It had felt like years. Time itself was being smeared out, a single moment spread to infinity. But there she remained; Dr Lilibeth Orion, 61, 5 feet 7 inches, PhD in astrophysics, former employee at the international research organization The Foundation .
Loving mother and wife. Childless and widowed.
She had slipped through a hole in the floor of a cottage, and was still falling, tumbling through the void that lay beneath it. That is to say, she assumed she was still falling; there was no wind resistance, no sense of direction or gravity. Alone with nothing but her thoughts, her mind began to wander, and as it did, a stinging regret began burning inside her.
Lillibeth wanted nothing more than to go home, but where was home now? Her old apartment? The Foundation?
Somewhere up ahead, debris began to float towards her. At first it was just a few chunks of concrete and splinters of wood, but then came a book, strips of vegetation with wilted blue flowers, PVC piping. A computer terminal drifted along, inexplicably still powered despite no visible power source.
What the hell, she mused to herself, if somebody comes after me they'll need to know what happened here. She grabbed the clunky monitor and keyboard as it floated by, carefully appending a warning to SCP-2508's documentation. Procedures dictated the document would need to be printed and put by the door, but who knew how much of the cottage was even intact. The best she could do was hit the print button and hope for the best, hope that whatever poor soul followed in her footsteps wouldn't make her mistakes.
Off in the dark, the faintest sound of a printer could be heard, reverberating in empty space. As soon as Lillibeth took her hands off the computer terminal, it continued drifting past her, until it ascended above her and was lost again in the inky blackness.
“Thank goodness you're still alive,” a familiar voice called from within Lillibeth's head. It belonged to that shadowy entity- the “immune response”- she met in the cottage right before it collapsed. She couldn't see it, but its presence could be felt.
“Leave me alone,” Lillibeth murmured, “can I not even die in peace?”
“You're not going to die,” the shadow replied. “Come with me, I can take you somewhere safe.”
“Where? Some holding cell while you rebuild that prison up there?”
Silence pervaded the dark.
“I tried to tell you,” the shadow spoke, “you need to stop lying to yourself. That transmitter- the place you've been all these years- it didn't choose you. It's the other way around.”
“Liar. I never agreed to any of this.”
“Yes, you did. And the fact remains, the transmitter needs constant maintenance, and it's unusual locale requires isolation. The ideal candidate is one that is already looking for such a place. A fresh start.”
Lillibeth didn't want to admit it. She wanted to curse and flail and fight until there was nothing left. But she was too tired, she had no fight left to give. The truth was, after losing her family, Lillibeth's life went into freefall. The grief seemed to have no bottom. She tried filling the hole with work but it was a band aid solution at best. Things didn't start to actually improve until after she became the resident of SCP-2508.
Perhaps she had always known, in some small way, that the whole time when she was trying to escape, the place she was trying to escape to no longer existed. Maybe SCP-2508- that little house house- had become the closest thing to home she had left…
…And she had just sent it down the deepest darkest pit, along with herself.
“Even if you're right,” Lillibeth sighed, “what then?”
“I–” the shadow began to answer, but before it could Lilibeth felt dizziness wash over her. Her eyes blurred momentarily, and by the time she shook the feeling off, she was no longer falling through the abyss. She was seated in a large red armchair in a spacious office overlooking a beach. At the far end of the room sat a desk, and behind that stood a gaunt man in a dark freshly pressed suit. He was faced away from her, peering out at the waves.
Lilibeth heard seagulls for the first time in 20 years.
“I apologize for the wait,” the man said, “I would have come sooner, but the universe conspires for events to happen at precisely the right time.” He turned towards her, greeting her with a warm smile like that of an old friend. “And here you are.”
“Where is here?” Lilibeth asked, her head still reeling.
“A small pocket dimension, much like your cottage. Although unlike your cottage, two square feet of this island occasionally overlap with a backyard in Salem, Massachusetts.”
A moment of silence came over the room.
“My name is Centaurus,” the man spoke again, strolling off to the side of the room where a mini bar was built into the wall , “and this is my office. Would you like something to drink?”
“No, I just need a second. It feels like I was falling for a lifetime. How long was I out there?”
Centaurus poured himself a glass of what Lilibeth assumed was something alcoholic, then began to walk back towards his desk.
“You used to work at The Foundation. You know as well as anyone that this universe of ours is a strange place. It's full of idiosyncrasies, quirks, and anomalies. Well, here's one more. Normally, underneath that cottage is a maze of maintenance ducts and a back door. I know you've seen that.”
Wherever this was going, Lilibeth didn't like it.
“However, at the exact moment you fall through that cottage- that point in space time- there is a hole. Punched through the fabric of reality. Always has been, always will be. No maintenance ducts, no back door… You've had a brush with the infinite.”
“I was…” Lilibeth trailed off.
“Outside of space and time, yes.”
“How is that even possible?”
“I've asked myself that same question. My colleagues and I have tried to study it, but as far as we can tell it's just part of the shape of the universe.” Centaurus produced a black briefcase from one of his desk drawers. On the top Lilibeth could just make out an engraving: the Hebrew letter Aleph, followed by a superscript Zero: ℵ0.
“Aleph Null,” she whispered, catching Centaurus' attention.
“You're familiar with the symbol?” He asked.
“Mathematically, yes, but I've seen it somewhere else too. There was a book that mentioned a group called Aleph Null, but they protected people from places like that cottage—”
“Do you still believe the cottage is some kind of prison?”
“I don't know what I think,” Lilibeth confessed, “but I'd hazard a guess you're affiliated with whoever is responsible for the cottage, not that Aleph Null group. So why the symbol?”
Centaurus smirked. “You seem to misunderstand the situation. That group you read about is merely a small aspect of Aleph Null, one meant to discourage the disturbing of our various sites. They are one piece of a greater whole. So am I.”
“Why should I believe you?” Lilibeth rose from her seat, but stopped as she felt a wave of disorientation pass over her once more. Her knees grew weak, causing her to sit back down.
She never made contact with the chair. Just like before, it felt as though she had become decoupled from time, and was strung out across infinity. Her vision blurred as she began seeing double, then triple. She shut her eyes just long enough to take a few deep breaths, and when she opened them, both her and Centaurus were standing on the beach outside.
“Something's wrong,” Lilibeth sputtered, “what did you do to me? How did we get outside?”
“We walked. You know, with our feet?” Centaurus chuckled.
“No, I don't remember that.”
“Yes, you do. I told you, Lilibeth, you had a brush with the infinite. You're just not used to experiencing time spatially.”
“Stop trying to confuse me,” Lilibeth held her hands to her temples as she could feel herself being pulled in a million directions at once. Time was melting around her.
“Don't fight against it,” Centaurus put a hand on Lilibeth's shoulder, “it's like learning to walk again, but you get used to it. Lean into it, let it take you where you want to go, I promise it will make sense.”

In Jay, Vermont, the bus arrived late one September morning. Off stepped a dozen or so passengers, slowly shuffling to their jobs in the cold rain like usual. Among these passengers was a woman in her early 60's, Dr. Lilibeth Orion. Another was a gaunt man in a freshly pressed suit; Centaurus. The two made their way across the street, where they stopped in front of an apartment complex. In one of the windows on the third floor sat a woman, casually working on her laptop. She couldn't have been over 30, and the family resemblance was apparent.
Junior Researcher Emily Orion had been working at Site-162 for several years now, primarily on research into SCP-067 in Maine. That was back in May. The object in question had since been explained, and she had been reassigned to Site-162's safe objects wing. All things considered, it had been a quiet and uneventful summer.
Outside, Lilibeth looked into the window, her lips curling into a smile. “This isn't a dream,” she said in a half whisper, “but my daughter died over 20 years ago”.
“Strictly speaking, this isn't the same Emily,” Centaurus corrected her. “Do you remember how we got here?”
“Yes,“ she replied, but felt something else at the back of her mind. Memories flashed in her head; memories both foreign and yet somehow familiar. The one which stood out now was that of an ancient structure; a tangled web larger than large, a cascade of forms bending through higher dimensions. And it was alive.
“But I remember other things, too,” she continued, “things that haven't happened yet. I remember Aleph Null, the construction of the cottage, you and my friends and I all working together… and the other Hyperpatterns.” She turned to face Centaurus.
“You said part of me was outside of time. That means it always has been, always will be. I feel… untethered. And I think you are too.”
Centaurus nodded thoughtfully, “Similar story to you and your friends, really. We are all parallels of each other after all… What are you seeing right now?”
“Possibility space. My life, every trajectory it takes. All of my possible futures and pasts. Including ones where my husband and daughter are still alive.”
In the window, Emily closed her laptop and casually disappeared into another room.
Things were coming into focus now. Lilibeth hadn't been seeing double back in the office, she was seeing other timelines. Except where before they had been a blur they now appeared almost crystal clear, a near infinite array of potential futures and pasts all happening at once, eternally. She needed only to focus her attention on a moment, and there she was. No teleportation or dimensional hopping, just a simple change in perspective.
“Are you going to go inside? Say hello?” Centaurus asked. Lilibeth mulled the thought for a moment.
“Yes, but not yet. There's still a lot of work to do."

------------

Welcome back, Lilibeth.
We have missed you, and have been waiting so very long.
We trust that you will keep your side of the arrangement now that we have kept ours.
-ℵ0