Item #: SCP-QQQQ
Object Class: Euclid
Special Containment Procedures: Seismic Monitoring Site-██ has been constructed around SCP-QQQQ, with the primary purpose of conducting surveys of cannon firing patterns. Standard Cover Protocol H-03, "Military Firing Range" is to be implemented in turning away any intruders. Due to SCP-QQQQ's immobility and predictable behaviour, it is to be considered a low containment breach risk. Standard antimateriel equipment and demolitions gear is to be provided on-site for use in dismantling SCP-QQQQ in the event of an emergency.
Description:
All this- everything we've built, fought and died for is a flimsy shell of filth around It. It is metal. It is heat. It is fire. It is the greatest forge. It is the heart of the planet, beating slowly under the weight of millenia and it is slowing down.
We can't let the Heart die. We can't let it grow cold and broken and still and lifeless.
We need heat. We need fire. A healing rain of metal from on high, restoring life.
The first gun fired today. It was like a falling COMET, a SPARK of LIFE sent from ON HIGH.
THE EGG NEEDS FIRE.
At the turn of the first key, the ship shook like a great beast awakened from a long slumber by the sting of an insect. Outside, the albedo plating began to move, unfolding outward into huge trailing vanes. The engines stuttered, their pitch rising.
"Tertiary firing locks removed. Radiator backups engaged!"
At the turn of the second key, the bridge crew were nearly knocked off their feet as the entire bow section of the vessel, two kilometers long, slid forward on vast shock absorbers, armour plating accordioning away as the two spike capacitors of the Cannon extended to their full length.
"Thermal venting at 95% capacity! Spinning up prefire chargers!"
At the turn of the third key, the lights flickered and the control boards dimmed. An unintelligible voice boomed something over the pounding harmonies of the PA system, but its intent was clear. All available power diverted. Brace for firing.
"Breakers locked in! Engineering reports overcharge dump complete!"
At the turn of the fourth key, the carbon-fibre vanes began to burn crimson. The hull groaned as energy surged through it, and the engines began to pulse in staccato bursts, keeping the entire massive vessel immobile. From somewhere far below them, there was a thunderous clunk and a single bolt of blinding purple plasma jumped between the capacitors. With startling velocity, forearm-thick slatted armour plates slammed down over the bridge windows.
"Sensoriums A, B, C and D report targetting beams collimated! Prefire sequence complete!"
At the firing console, a single, small light blinked a cheerful blue-green. Above it, on a console that had been added much later, thirteen small red lights blinked green one by one.
"SCPS Solidarity Grand Wave Motion Projection Cannon firing has received final Council authorization! All crew, brace for impact!"
There was a fractional moment of silence as shoulders were set, grips tightened and some made prayers to their gods, their voices lost in the apocalyptic roar of the Grand Cannon.
"Ignition in three! Two! One!"
Then, a single syllable drowned out by a soundless detonation.
"FIRE."
The clouds of Jupiter were suddenly awash as, far above them, a new sun was born, lived for an immeasurably small instant, and died, sending a pencil-thin beam of blinding blue-white light and hyperaccelerated carbon atoms playing lazily across the invading fleet. They hung, silhouetted against glare.
And then the stars went dim as a trillion trillion trillion subatomic particles tore themselves asunder with uncontrolled fury, their death wails a full spectrum of light and colour. An expanding sphere of spent energy washed over the Solidarity, tearing away chunks of its white-hot radiators and burning out its struggling engines.
On the bridge, there was a breathless, amazed silence as the ship tumbled freely, interior lights burning out and exploding from the surge of energy. The hull seemed to roar in pain, sympathetic vibrations hammering it over and over again.
And then, slowly, dimly, tentatively, the lights came on, and the reassuring hum of the main engines. The shutters stowed themselves, revealing the full glory of the Jovian system.
The enemy fleet was gone.
For centuries the frozen Siberian tundra had lain untouched by the hand of man. Years flickered by like seconds as the snow and ice advanced and retreated, as wild animals lived their simple lives, as predators preyed upon the weak and succumbed to the slow grasp of time. But always, they avoided a single tree- a twisted, gnarled thing, bent double under the weight of the frigid Siberian winters. It was hardy, yes, but the ground around it seemed drained, and its roots dug deep into soil that was little more than gravel. No human eyes had ever gazed upon it, but if they had, they would have noticed a peculiar pattern carved into its wizened bark- an almost human figure, its perfect musculature laid out with almost artistic grace. It stood there in a pose of aggressive physicality, statuesque. Until this morning. There was blood on the wind.
With a creak of aging biomass and a hiss of putrid steam, the figure pulled itself free from its bark womb, placing one immaculate foot on the gravelly soil. It opened its pinkish eyes, fleshy gills sucking at the crisp air, smirking mouth dripping red-brown ichor. Taking in the scene about it, it gave a snort of bestial laughter. After centuries gestating beneath the soil of eastern Russia, the Flesh that Hates had achieved apotheosis.
Joint Operating Base 501, outside Irkutsk, Siberia, Red Star Union.
Current headquarters, SCP M(M)TF Alpha-2 "Mahouboes"
As two well-adjusted adults screamed themselves hoarse before him, Agent Iosip Kamio struggled to think up a suitably mundane monologue. The trouble wasn't the monologue- since the Kindling, monologues were a fact of life. It was the mundanity that was giving him pause. As a small fleck of spit from the screaming woman standing just to his left zinged by his ear, he frowned. Mundanity was tough these days.
I never asked to be part of the Foundation's elite ma-
No, no. Angst wouldn't get him anywhere, just set him on a descending spiral of brooding. A few other members of the Mahouboes were angsty, and while that was undoubtedly an asset when push came to shove, it didn't suit him. He tried again.
Ever since I was young, I wanted to be a space pilot. Looking up at the orbital docks high above, and hearing the distant rumble of the shuttles, I knew that my future lay among the stars. Well, that's what I'd hoped, anyways. But then-
No, that wouldn't do either. If he kept going with that kind of nonsense they'd likely transfer him out of the Mahouboes and put him in the Space Corps, with all the other wannabe ace pilots and their stupid crimson Orbital Operating Frames. The man to his right was cracking, his roar of bestial fury starting to oscillate into a shriek. Kamio was running out of time.
The legends said that once there were heroes- brave knights of yore who, with their magic weapons, banished the-
He shook his head. That was treading into Order of the Serpentine Fist territory. He didn't think he had the charisma to become a Librarian Knight anyways. One last try, then.
My life is ordinary. I go to work, I go through the motions, I return to barracks. They promised me excitement when I signed on. All I got was- was this. It's not a bad life. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't somewhat content. But I've always dreamed- always hoped- that there might be something bigger out there. Something grand and wonderful. A chance to- to-
He stopped, smiling slightly. This was good stuff. He'd have to write it down later. For now, he settled in to listen as the screaming wound down.
"SEVASEVASEVASEVASEVASEVASEVASEVAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-!"
"URAURAURAURAURAURAURAURAURAURAURAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-!"
They both trailed off, the flaming blooms of energy encircling them fizzling away to nothing. Kamio nodded.
"Nicely done. Bhago, maybe pick something that doesn't include a sibilant? You're obviously having some difficulty sustaining. Popovitch, it works, but you've got to keep it in a lower register. A good battle-roar can't be a scream, it has to be a roar. You've both made excellent progress on your Power Auras, though. Take ten."
l. Bossman Star, son
He’s a long gone,
Like blood through their veins,
Only dust remains.
2. Well, my Star said,
when he burnt that sun,
"This ain't no end,
It's only just begun."
Well, they hamstrung th'Boss
Left him crawling, blinkin', lost;
An th' Screamers cried,
“That star ain't no loss!”
Chorus:
Well, Bossman Star,
He ain't gone far,
He ain't gone far.
Bossman Star, Star,
Old blinkin' Star,
Oh, Star, Star,
We know where you are.
3. He says "I'll return,
And I'll break that chain"
Says, "They'll all feel my hate
They'll feel ol' Star's reign."
Bossman Star, son
He’s a long gone,
Like blood through their veins,
Only dust remains.
A sentient piece of lead suitable for use as nuclear reactor shielding which is now cripplingly addicted to radiation. It was at Trinity, it was at Chernobyl, it was at Three Mile, it was at Fukushima. How or why, we're not sure.
They're dragonflies. That have naturally evolved heat seeking missiles. And they can break the sound barrier. And they're in Temagami.
Item #: SCP-XXXX
Object Class: Safe
Special Containment Procedures: Due to the remoteness of SCP-XXXX's area of I habitation and it's natural aversion to human contact, SCP-XXXX containment will focus on minimizing the spread of SCP-XXXX and keeping its population levels down. The SCP-XXXX breeding area currently covers a roughly circular region of ████████, approximately 13.6km2. This area, designated Bio-Site 278, is bounded by a network of small-scale radar station designed to detect and track instances of SCP-XXXX. Should an instance of the object pass the boundaries of the site, standard anti-detection jamming protocols are to be used to disorient and ground the instance until it can be destroyed or returned to containment. Waterways leading into and out of the Site are equipped with filtration systems to counter the spread of SCP-XXXX larvae. Under no circumstances should any instance of SCP-XXXX be allowed access to any form of inorganic explosive chemical.
Personnel entering the containment areas of Site-278 are to wear standard light ballistic equipment at all times, as well as carry a modified standard radio beacon configured to jam standard SCP-XXXX targeting frequencies. Due to the potential risk of injury, all long-term tests and research conducted within the site are to be conducted by D-class personnel, with researchers supervising by remote.
Description: SCP-XXXX refers to two species of anomalous dragonfly, and one species of anomalous damselfly, found naturally in a region of L███ E█████-S██████████ Provincial Park, Canada. All species appear to have naturally evolved a form of natural radar detection, alcohol-fueled internal ramjet engines, and the ability to launch small shaped fragments of chitin which are self-propelled and home in on heat signatures.
SCP-XXXX-1 is superficially similar to Macromia Illinoiensis (the Swift River Cruiser), with the exception of an enlarged thorax and a series of small vanes or fins on the end of the abdomen. They are the fastest variant of SCP-XXXX, and are extremely aggressive hunters.
SCP-XXXX-2 resembles Aeshna Umbrosa, though its exoskeleton is extremely angular and its abdomen is notably flattened. This species has demonstrated high maneuverability and a preference for hunting after dark.
Area of space containing a system of Rube Goldberg machines unaffected by entropy. Any outside force or influence triggers new subsets of the machine, which in turn trigger more. Whenever the system winds to a halt, it does so in such a way as to ensure that subsequent outside force will start the system again.
Patrick Bateman meets SCP-082. Classy psychopath hijinks ensue.
The device was very nearly a museum piece. Its systems were outmoded and inefficient, based around design philosophies which had fallen out of favor aeons ago. That it was still functional at all was due mainly to its ridiculously overengineered construction. They all commented on that as they gathered around the control system, touching activation surfaces and turning the toggles that would send a shock driving deep into the device's slow, barely-intelligent brain. Many of them would rather have used more modern, conventional methods, but with the recent setbacks, times were tough. Reactivating such prehistoric equipment was the most economical way. Besides, that issue aside, the timing was perfect. In a few brief years conditions would be ideal, and the device could fulfill its purpose. The technicians celebrated, briefly and professionally, and then settled in to wait.
…[D]etected an ultra-low-frequency underwater sound emanating from around ██ºS ███ºW, approximately ████ km from the southwestern coast of South America […] Foundation analysis concluded that a massive underwater organism was the source of the noise, and SCP-169 was hypothesized to be its source, as its "head" is well within the possible locations of the rest of SCP-169. The sound confirms Ɣ6-0421's hypothesis that SCP-169 is gargantuan in size.
Beyond a single rumbling moan, the device showed no sign of its activation. It had been built that way, after all. Deep within its cavernous underbelly, machinery that had lain dormant for millenia twitched convulsively, unfolding with arthritic slowness as fluid pumped through ducts and pipework long-dried. Pseudomuscular tissue flexed, and vast bundles of neural tissue buzzed to malign life. The device was active. It had its instructions. In the vast womblike chambers that composed most of its mass, it began to work.
…██/██/2013, Foundation monitoring systems worldwide detected significant seismic shocks and accompanying water displacement originating from an area roughly congruent to the area assumed to be covered by SCP-169. Further analysis of the sounds, as well as the minimal amount of surface displacement caused by the seismic event, lead to the conclusion that SCP-169 did not move but instead released upwards of 200 large (massing approx. 2200 tonnes) objects which dispersed evenly across the globe, apparently travelling under their own power. Attempts to track and directly observe any of these objects, designated SCP-169-1, has failed. Research into whether these objects are using some form of anomalous active or passive camouflage is unknown.
For a brief moment, the conference room was silent. The thirteen waited. Then a voice broke the silence.
"We're agreed, then?"
"We are."
"Of course.
"It's unfortunate, but yes."
The first speaker gave a curt nod, her eyes cold but fierce behind beetled brows.
"Very well, then. Henceforth, SCP-169 and SCP-169-1 are to be treated as imminent XK-event-level threats. As per Directive 14, the Foundation is now on a war footing. Archival teams are to utilize all safeguard methods to ensure the security of Foundation-related data. All reserve units- of all clearances- are to be brought to active status. The GOC has already been informed of the situation, and all Foundation assets are to cooperate with them as much as possible."
"We're positive this isn't coming from one of the other GOIs?"
"Absolutely. Intelligence is at maximum readiness, and has been tracking unusual communications chatter."
"The Church of the Broken God is in a state of open panic."
"Our sources in Tehran confirm that the ORIA is gearing up for war and that the entire Iranian Navy has been put on alert."
"Have Intelligence keep an eye on them. The last thing we need at this juncture is a war in the Middle East."
"The Chaos Insurgency has gone completely silent. I feel that this is unlikely to be a GOI threat."
"Indeed. We're certain MC and D isn't behind it?"
"One of our plants in London informs us that they're in the process of drafting a statement- to be issued to us, mind you- to the effect that this isn't their fault, and whatever it is they have no idea what's going on."
"Moving on, then."
"No unusual reports from Heimdall. They've been informed as to the situation. This may not be extra-terrestrially sourced."
"Transdimensional, perhaps? Is Multi-U cleared for this?
"Naturally. Now, as for the Ha-"
There was a sharp intake of breath from a man far down the table. He pressed a hand to his ear, listening intently as a message was relayed. Meetings of the O5 were never, never interrupted. This had to be something vitally important, or heads would roll.
"O5-4?"
He looked up, expression drawn but bemused.
"Someone claiming to be an envoy from the Serpent's Hand has just materialized at the front gates of Site 19. He is demanding to speak with you, O5-1. By name."
Though our current position is somewhat overstretched, we feel that the risk of a second transdimensional attack justifies this exchange of materiel and technology. The information we have recieved from this branch of the Serpent's Hand corroborates your story and our own (admittedly limited) investigation. Bear in mind that we have our own war to fight, however. Any further support we provide will be limited at best. That said, you have our best wishes in combating this incursion, and we strongly feel that continued collaboration between our organizations will be extremely productive.
Good luck, and Godspeed,
O5-1, SCP Global Coastal Defence Force
He looked at the panel of instruments, then down to the ocean below, then back to the panel of instruments, then across to her. She smiled.
"Still think this is-", he bega, but she interrupted.
"-A good idea? You know what I think."
He sighed, shrugging inside the tight suit of plating. His eyes were drawn once more to the swell.
"I mean, I appreciate your optimism, but-"
He didn't need to be able to see her face to know she was rolling her eyes. This wasn't the first time he'd gone over this with her. He soldiered on in the face of her slightly disapproving bemusement.
"I mean the Serpent's Hand somehow convinced our Foundation and a Foundation from an entirely different universe to share technology out of nowhere, after a previously inert skip goes completely nuts but hasn't actually threatened to destroy the world yet. And now we're stuck in this goddam semi-experimental war machine made from their spare parts and stuff we cobbled together in the space of a few months, armed with an anomalously-powered reactor and weaponry so far into the prototype stage some of it is still literally held together with string, accompanied by two other equally-experimental war machines, also piloted by complete newbies, against an enemy we don't even know exists, and-"
An alarm chirped. His earbud crackled.
"Contact. You're up, pilots."
He gulped. She grinned.
"Affirmative, command. All right, Robot Jocks, Mobile Anti-Kaiju Task Force Alpha-One is moving out! Keter Sigma, weapons hot!"
The machine moved beneath him, and he moved in sync with her, panic slowly sinking beneath a rising sea of adrenaline. Peering over the waves, he could see two other massive machines, their hulls painted Foundation white. The voices of the rest of the task force sounded in his ear.
"Tasker Montauk, weapons are hot!"
"Protector Blue, all weapons online! Ura!"
He glanced at her, smiling despite himself.
"All right," he said. "Let's go cancel an XK."
Item #: SCP-XXXX
Object Class: Keter
Special Containment Procedures: SCP-XXXX is currently contained in the body of D-56836, secured in a sealed hospital ward on Site-█. Should the current host of SCP-XXXX die, on-site electrocradiography equipment will indicate the new host. Under no circumstances should personnel currently implanted with a pacemaker device or artificial heart of any kind come within 500 meters of SCP-XXXX's containment chamber. The reinforced bulkheads and electrical wiring supplying power to the containment ward are to be checked on a bi-weekly basis for any signs of wear and tear.
In testing circumstances, security personnel are forbidden from carrying any form of electroshock-based weaponry, due to the risk of enabling SCP-XXXX-1.
Description:SCP-XXXX is a malevolent entity which inhabits pacemaking devices present in human beings. When a human host of SCP-XXXX, designated SCP-XXXX-1, is infected with the entity, they will immediately begin to demonstrate an increasingly erratic heart rate, as well as greatly increased skin conductance. Instances of SCP-XXXX-1 appear to be able to sense electrical fields, and are drawn to them. If allowed to, they will locate and attempt to acquire control over the nearest source of electrical current strong enough to injure or kill a human being. At this point, SCP-XXXX-1 will attempt to harm other living beings with their electrical source. The behavioural patterns of SCP-XXXX-1 seem to vary widely from host to host; during tests, some were observed to openly attack test animals and D-class personnel, while others resorted to subterfuge and concealment to achieve their goals. During their aggressive behaviour, the heartrate of SCP-XXXX-1 will continually destabilize, invariably resulting in fatal fibrillation. If SCP-XXXX-1 dies at any time, SCP-XXXX will pass to the nearest human being implanted with a pacemaker.
Should SCP-XXXX-1 succeed in fatally injuring another living being
Spotlit
The gallery is dark and cooling now, the dust from the day's visitors settling slowly to the floor as the last sunbeams of evening give way to the first moonbeams of night. In their corners the statues wait, paper skin glowing dully. She closes his office door behind her and locks it, hearing the faint shuffle of their movement beyond the sealed portal as the bolt clicks home. They cannot harm her, but they are a nuisance; a messy creation, too impractical to clean up. In halfdarkness, she reaches for the lamp that clings to the shelf on metal vice feet and clicks it on, bringing its dish-like head down over the blank patches stretched across her desk. As light radiates softly from behind the metal vents of the lamp, she pauses. Her eyes travel up and down the light's curved, many-hinged length, and a slow smile sketches itself onto her drawn features. She carefully uncorks a fresh pot of ink, dips her favorite brush into it, and makes a single, elegant line, a dark, sinuous curve, from one side of the page to the other.
Taktaktaktaktak. The sound of little metal limbs on paper and wood. Before it the world is light and life and hunger and joy and anger and pain and pleasure and obedience and all things. Behind it there is no world, only Dark. Wet, inky Dark which must be dried.
She pauses, considering, then adds a second line to thicken the first- one end becomes the faintest hint of a tail, the other a slim neck. Something moves in the reams of paper under the desk, and, with an attention-demanding yowl, the cat crawls out. It's eyes are empty, inky pits- a rather unfortunate encounter with one of the statues, but it sees well enough to brush against her legs and then stare up at her with a pleading look. She sighs, then readjusts her seat so the cat can hop up and settle itself, purring, in her lap.
It is feeling full and pleased with itself- a Food came near the Opening Place and became confused by the light, so it and the other Lights who wait near the Opening Place for the Patrons to come to the Gallery ate well, dancing satisfied through the dark puddles of Food blood. The Patrons do not see, to understand Food, but wherever they go in the Gallery Food follows, so it follows them. It feels right to stay with the Patrons. They deserve to see the Gallery, and it is a Light. It is very good at seeing.
The cat, working itself into a state of trance-like contentment, stretches out its front paws and begins to knead at her shirt, purring even harder know as its pen-sharp claws scratch at her skin through the linen cloth. Taking care to avoid its eyes, she reaches down and pushes its paws away, then makes two more strokes on the page- long, curving front legs, ending in simple sharpened edges. More abstractions of limbs than actual limbs, but she somehow finds something pleasing in their minimalism. She thinks he will too, when he sees them.
This is familiar territory, home to many of the Lights it hunts with and curls up against when the Food has gone. There is not much Art in this part of the Gallery, only the signs left by the Patrons, and the detritus of their visits. Only the stupidest or most desperate of Food comes here- there are so many Lights that they're often consumed before they can make any Patrons into Art or call more Food.
Two more limbs, now. Slim but full of power. She runs a hand through the cat's steel-gray fur and considers the little body on the page before her. Yes, this is a good start. She can work with this.
It freezes as its glow crosses that of another Light. This one is not a Light. It is a Bad. The Bad is like a light but all sharp and sinew. It can be Food, but it is harder and smarter and faster than Food and so it is Bad. The Light takes a hesitant step back as the Bad rounds on it, tail twitching in anticipation. It's hide is scratched and worn, and its illumination flickers faintly- it is desperate for Food, or perhaps for Light. It is Bad.
She adjusts the lamp then draws a neat semicircle, minutely cross-hatching its inner edge to indicate the mirror sheen it will have. She does not usually progress straight from a sketch to a design document like this is rapidly becoming, but something about the idea just demands to be brought forth. It is one of those ideas she is helpless to stop; he will understand.
The Bad lunges, flickering, and the Light dances aside as the larger creature's class tear deep gouges in the Gallery. Thankfully, there is no Art in this room to be harmed- the Light knows that damaging Art would be worse, worse than this Bad. It regains its footing rapidly and turns for another lunge, scoring a deep cut across the Light's face but thankfully missing anything vital. The force of the blow knocks the Light to its back, and it struggles to get upright again.
With the cross-bars of the face complete, she turns her attention to the tail. Something is missing. The design feels too… Straightforward, not whimsical enough for what it is. As so often happens, she lets her eyes wander, knowing that inspiration will come to her from somewhere. Her eyes travel past the bulb of the lamp, down the neck, over the feet, and then to the little dangling cord, un-needed thanks to the bulb. She smiles again. Perfect. An idea so obvious there's no wonder she missed it. In broad strokes, she attaches a little plug to the end of the design's tail. And now there is only one last detail to paint.
The Bad scratches wildly with both front claws, battering at the Light's faceplate in a feverish attempt to get underneath it. As the Light flails wildly, desperate to escape, it sees the approaching glow of other Lights and feels as much relief as its simple mind can. More Lights means fewer Bads.
She pulls one of the sheafs of paper out from under the desk, and gently unfurls the elegant charcoal sketch of an incandescent lightbulb. She knows the design by heart, of course, but somehow it just feels right to copy it like this, her brush following each curve of the wiring and each loop of the filament.
Suddenly, the Bad shakes, sparks flying off it. There are lights in addition to the Lights- white, not yellow. Patrons! The Bad stumbles off and is set upon by a swarm of Lights, collapsing beneath them as its glow is finally extinguished.
She wipes the brush clean and sets it down, the last stroke complete. Before her on the page lies a lamp-headed cat. There is one final touch- taking a much smaller brush from its stand, she signs her name, the curvature of the first letter 'A' perfect, as it always is. She sits back and pets the cat. Yes. It's all perfect. He'll love it.
A Patron's hand comes down and pets the Light gently on its scratches. It pushes back gratefully, eager to please. It will do its best to show these Patrons the Gallery- there is so much Art left to see!
//"I don't recognize this one. Definitely not one of the named two sees."
"Guess that means you've got naming dibs, then. What are you thinking?"
The Light stares curiously at them as another Patron calls from across the room.
"Crowely! Hayward! We can worry about the cats later. We've got a lot of distance to cover."
The Patrons set off into the Gallery, and the Light follows. Where there is Art there are Patrons. Where there are Patrons there is no Food. Where there is Food there is Light. All is well in the Gallery.
Taktaktaktaktak.//
