I feel like I'm having the shittiest fever dream of all time. Nothing feels real.
I woke up, back to the pavement, staring up at the moon and the dim yellow neon of a nearby skyscraper, clutching a hickory cane. I remember that much. I don't remember how I got here, I don't remember why there's blood everywhere, and I don't remember if it's mine or theirs.
"Hey, you awake?"
No response.
"You alive?"
Nothing.
Shit.
I realize it's raining for the first time since I woke up. Just a light drizzle, but enough to explain why the ground's soaked.
I sit up, and look over at them. They're bloody. Really bloody. I catch myself shaking. Calm down. Think straight. We'll get out of this.
"Hey. Hey!" I shake her, I think it's a her anyway, hair's long and bleach blonde, guys don't usually look like that. It's hard to make out much else. She lets out a pained moan. Not dead yet, that's good.
A siren. I hear a siren. That means police, or an ambulance! That's great! We can....
Wait. Wait. Nononono. Fuck. Nonono.
Blood everywhere, two people, one out like a light, the other claiming to not remember anything? This is bad. This is awful. I can't go to prison. I won't go to prison.
"Shit that's selfish as hell isn't it? I can't just leave you here."
I try to get up. After a bit, trying becomes doing. My everything hurts, but my head feels like an axe's been run through it. But I can stand, I can walk.
"Hopefully I can carry you."
I manage to get her up, not before nearly falling over myself. I sling her over my shoulder, the cane proves useful, and we're off.
"Where we're off to, that's not something I've figured out yet."
I'm getting really sick of waking up and not knowing where I am.
Four walls, so I'm inside, that's good. In a...bed? With a curtain at the foot of it. Hospital? Has to be a hospital, right?
"I was beginning to worry." Curtain parts, and in walks this old--I really have to emphasize. Old--man with thick spectacles and a lab coat. He looks like everyone's grandfather, assuming your grandfather is also a scientist.
He's holding something. A little block of yellow plastic with a screen on it, plus some metal bits on the top.
"Ow-eye-tyuh, am I saying that right?"
"Huh?" I blink, and pause long enough to make it awkward.
He pulls something from the other side of the curtain, and hands it to me. It's the cane I woke up next to earlier. I'm just now noticing actually, AOI TYA, carved on the crook ever so lightly.
"Those things are rare nowadays you know." His voice is dry, it sounds like someone crinkling paper. "Most people just use prosthetics, and, well, I'm not sure what kind of wood that is, but it's remarkably sturdy to hold up both you and your friend."
"How is she?" I jump a bit. I suspect most people are probably not startled by their own voices, but when you haven't used it in a while, well....
"Not dead. Which given what the both of you have been through, is a bit of a miracle." He tugs at the scraggly hairs on his chin that are trying desperately to form a respectable beard. "I'm not....entirely sure how to describe your condition to you. What happened, anyway? I hear a thud at my door and next thing I know I find two unconscious, bloodied young women on my doorstep."
I tell him the story, what of it I can anyway. I shake and shudder a little bit, I gesture at nothing--have I always talked with my hands like that?--I try not to sob, I mostly succeed. It doesn't take long to give him the run down.
"Not a thing, eh?"
"No..."
"This may surprise you, but, that doesn't really surprise me. Here, have a look."
He passes me the yellow thing, it's got a screen, with a picture of a side view of a brain on it. There's a bunch of tiny, pinprick-sized holes in the picture.
"I'm...not sure what I'm lookin' at here, Doc."
"Your brain."
"M...my brain?" I'm sure my eyes must be deer-in-the-headlights right now. What's he mean, my brain?
"It is a literal impossibility that you're alive right now. Your brain, as I'm sure you can see on the scan, appears to have dozens--possibly hundreds--of tiny holes in it. That you can still breathe, much less think and speak coherently, is nothing short of a miracle."
"Wha....what?" I drop the yellow thing and I'm clutching my head. Suddenly, for whatever reason, I don't feel so good.
"Your friend is similar. Furthermore, neither of you have any injuries to your heads of any kind, sans a very small....incision, on the back. Far too small, I might add, to input any surgical tools that I know of, and I have been a surgeon for almost fifty years."
"I..but, where'd all that blood come from if not our heads, then? Huh? You're not making any sense!" I'm yelling now I think. I'm definitely shaking. I don't mean to, but -
"If you'll examine your legs and torso, you'll see a number of small but deep cuts. It's another, separate, miracle that neither of you died from blood loss. However, I'm quite confident that not all the blood you were covered in was yours." Doc scratches his chin, looks contemplative. I'm glad someone thinks this is interesting, I sure as hell don't.
"In fact" he continues "I almost wonder if it's not some kind of setup." He shakes his head. "Not my line of work, you'll have to forgive me, I just don't understand it."
So now I'm hearing a knock somewhere off in the distance, probably the front door.
Candol Maroudh stood atop the bow of her ship, a gentle sea breeze caressed her blond hair as The Wraith of Horizon glided over the shallow ocean.
It was funny. It'd been years now, but she still felt out of place here, like a usurper. Unworthy, somehow.
"Captain!" Behind her, a thin girl with a single long braid of red hair. "We make landfall soon. Navigator Polett says it should'n be more than a few hours."
Landfall so soon? This Polett fellow really was good. "Is everything below deck secure?"
"Treasurer Plickett claimed so, ma'm!"
"Good."
Candol soon found herself back at the captain's....her quarters, she hung her hat on the rack, and sat down to update the daily log. She dipped a pen in an inkwell--
Captain Candol's Records:
-Clean sailing today. Clear skies, smooth water. Fewer things have been menacing the ship these past few days. I suspected that it might be a sign we were nearing shore, and Ko-i passed on a message from Polett confirming as such. We should be just offcoast by nightfall. Polett indicated to me a few days ago that we should be making landfall near Old La Der. I hope he's right, for reasons the stockpile log for last week should make obvious.
-No other updates today.
Candol Maroudh, Captain the Third of The Great Ship Wraith of Horizon
She put the quill down. That last bit still didn't feel real, but before she could think further, a heavy knock came at her door.
"Come in."
It was the girl with the dreadlocks and the necklace--what had once been a wooden cross, but wear and tear had turned into more of a T shape--always around her neck.
"Ah, Mary, what is it?
Mary shuffled her feet, her boots clacking against the floorboards. "Captain, Ko-i told me we're landing soon. Is that true?"
"Yes, that's right. Though she shouldn't have told you."
"Please Captain, she only told me because she knew I had something I needed to ask you."
"Which is?"
"Well...." more feet shuffling. "I mean no ill, Captain, but since Captain Blackerl's been gone, I feel that I've little reason t' be on this ship anymore."
"You want off."
"Yes, Captain."
"Were I Blackerl herself, I'd deny you."
"....Yes, Captain."
"But I am not Blackerl." Candol picked her quill back up. "You realize I'll have to confiscate your share."
"I do, Captain."
"Very well then." Candol let out a heavy sigh, and Mary retreated without another word.
"Sometimes, curiosity just gets the better of you, doesn't it?"
"I understand, I really do." The tall, near-skeletal figure pushed a pair of spectacles up the bridge of its nose, its wiry frame glowing a soft blue. "I mean it's hardly the first time someone's ended up here because they were curious about something. That fellow from the other day with the rocket, for instance, but you..." It trailed off. "Well I'm just surprised."
I beamed. "Well, death is the biggest adventure of all, isn't it?"
"Yes, I. I suppose it is..." The figure ruffled through a large brass pot of some sort, digging around for something in particular. He pulled out a plastic blue ball, like one you'd see bingo numbers printed on. "Ah...Well, I'm not sure I agree with that. But I don't make the rules, I just follow them."
He slipped the ball from his hands to mine. I'd never felt so small before. It had a symbol printed on it, one I didn't recognize.
The figure twiddled his bony fingers. "You're being ruled a special case."
The great door behind him swung open. A deep blue, scraping the infinite light that hung overhead. I covered my ears out of instinct, but the sound rattled me to my bones anyway.
"Get along, now, and don't be scared."
I looked at him, eyes wide, I must've been smirking.
Drigol folded his upper hands, clacking his tongue to the roof of his mouth as he did so, running it over his sharp crocodilian teeth in silent contemplation. A hot wind blew across his scales as he looked down at the canyons below. The lowlanders would be here in mere days, already the advance scouts of their armies gleamed like ants of iron as they wound through the many canyons the aerie overlooked. The human sat next to him, tan, with jade eyes. Drigol never fully trusted humans, but here was one whom came close.
"They'll be here soon." She stated.
"Indeed."
"The dragon-riders are ready at your order, as always."
"Indeed." He repeated. He closed his eyes, letting the hot breeze pass over him once more. "How many have we?"
"300, sir. With an additional 200 archers backing them up."
"It will not be enough."
"But if we attack at night, under the cover of dar--" Drigol held up a hand
"No, Sirocca." Sirocca sighed in resignation.
"If we leave soon, we can make our way to the rails before the lowlanders arrive, the inventors may be able to get it running again." Drigol spoke as firmly as possible, trying to mask his uncertainty.
"So then...."
"We will leave. The lives of our people matter more to me than the sanctity of our land."
"But where will we go?"
"East, or South, whichever way the iron carriage runs." For the first time in nearly two days, Drigol grabbed his spear that had laid on the ground beside him, took it in his left hands, and stood, leaning on it like a cane. "Gather the rest of the elders and have them meet me in the Central Aerie, I will tell them of my plans."
"Yes....yes sir." As Sirocca ran to follow his orders, Drigol looked down upon the lowlanders one last time. He snorted in disgust, half at them, half at himself, and walked away.
Once in a place long from here, and far from here, there was a Great Valley, called just that, in a place far from any city or village. Upon the highest peak of the highest mountain of the Valley there was a shrine, the shrine had three sides, and three roads leading to it. These three roads too lead away from it, and in the shrine upon a great centre pedestal were three round stones, each stone containing a tiny god. Each god had three names, and each had three powers.
The first was Washakazul, or Bapul, or Dandondir, who commanded the rain of the Valley, the wind of the Valley, and the storms of the Valley, but the Valley alone.
The second was Arshurnazul, or Prapul, or Khonnonir, who commanded the heat of the Valley, the cold of the Valley, and the seasons of the Valley, but the Valley alone.
The third was Zurzanzarzul, or Sugrul, or Shekenir, whose powers were hidden from all but itself. All that is known was that these powers extended only as far as the Valley alone.
Each of these gods shared but one caretaker. Young Aubrey, step-sweeper of the Shrine, who kept the three paths clean. Each day at the third hour after the sun rose, and at the third hour after the sun set, Young Aubrey would commune with her tiny gods. She chanted prayers, spoke love and mantras, and asked for goodwill for all.
The Shrine had few visitors, but those that came came from Nonertalim, the only village of the Valley. They came to ask for love, they came to ask for wealth, they came to ask for peace. Each visitor would give Young Aubrey a gift and a prayer. Young Aubrey kept these prayers in a box, and every day when she communed with her tiny gods, she would recite prayers from the box. When she recited one, she would put it back in.
I didn't honestly know how long it had been when I finally came to. I don't mean woke up, in the traditional sense of the term, like I was sleeping and was suddenly jostled awake by a shake or a
startle. I mean when I became aware of what was actually happening.
It takes a surprisingly long time to work out, you know? At least, it feels like it does. I don't know how long I've been here, the sun never seems to move, and when you're plummeting toward the ground at God knows how many miles an hour, you can't exactly check your watch--not that I have one--to check the time.
But I felt it at some point, I did. Eyes open, the blue streaking past, it eventually dawned on me that I was falling and not just floating. Falling ever faster, if the laws of physics work here. Or is that how that works? I can't really remember.
I can't really remember much. I don't remember my name. I think it starts with M? That sounds about right. I don't quite know what I look like either. I can see my limbs of course, like antennas raised to heaven, and I can see some of my hair, long and black looks like, but I can't see my face, which, well, I'd argue that's what makes you "you".
In any case, I can't remember why I'm here either. If I am falling, one must assume that I fell from somewhere. Somewhere...up. But it's hard to get a grip on what "up" really means around here. Sure, I can tell the direction I'm falling away from, that's where my hair is after all, but, well, there must have been something I fell from, right? An airplane, a spaceship, a gigantic diving board, maybe! But, no parachute. Not as far as I can tell anyway. Peculiar.
I like the idea of a spaceship the best personally. I've always wanted to go to space! Or, at least, I think I have. It seems like something I've always wanted to do. Space is the place, right? The next ocean. I've always thought it romantic, and it'd be dumb, right, to just stay on one planet? Earth is too small. We fight over the land we have now, we certainly can't stay cooped up on this blue marble forever.
Subject begins toying with the pen again, flipping it up into the air and catching it.
S: What what says?
I: The book
Subject stares at Interrogator with a look of disbelief
S: Why do you do what a cookbook says?
I: I-
S: Because you want the result. The cookbook doesn't make you do anything. You do it because it's what you wanted all along.
S: Earlier you asked me why I kill too. I think that's a funny question!
Subject flips the pen into the air, allowing it this time to fall.
S: Why doesn't everyone? I hated her so I killed her! I thought he was ugly so I killed him! He pissed me off so I stabbed him!
I: If-
Subject picks up pen, stands up suddenly, and violently whips the pen across the room, narrowly missing Interrogator
S: Why doesn't everyone kill?! Life is a food chain! If they get in your way you kill them! That's how it works! That's how every other animal on the planet does it!
Here, Subject sits back down and presses her face to the table
Scene From A Mountain Country, Year 191 AA, Second Month of Harvest
Olle sat and knelt by the river as the gentle rain rolled off the wide brim of her hat. She'd seen inverted hangin' dolls in that farmer's window just a few days ago, and supposed the old man got his wish.
Just rain for his corn crops, he'd said. Almost at the thought, the rain picked up, and Olle let a gentle sigh drift from her lips. She got up, the water now sliding down the black fabric of her robes, and planted her branchstaff into the ground. The endless peaks of The Bergland stretched forever into the distance. Her eyes drifted skyward, and she let her thin lips purse into a small smile. Even in the downpour, those such as herself had a job to do.
She set her pack of tools on the damp grass, and pulled out a small brass dish and a thin stick of iron. The rain was allowed to collect in the dish, and the stick placed atop the water. It rotated, slowly facing west, which Olle made a small note of, jotting the direction down in a small flip-book.
The ghosts of the water knew--even if they did not know they knew--what was to come when it came to matters like the sudden rain today. Time was a complex knot of strings, but for such tiny gods of nature, unraveling it and peering at any given point along the yarn was no difficult task. She let another noise, perhaps a small chuckle, escape from her lips. The farmer would be disappointed. Sun tomorrow, and the day after.
A witch does not always bring good omens after all, but she does bring omens. She and the farmer both knew that.
so this is the first draft of the SCP I said I'd base off my weirdass nightmare from the other day. It's not finished yet and it probably sucks, but hey. It's basically weaponized intrusive thoughts that let you remove things from reality but eventually kill you.
--
A Bazooka You Shouldn't Forget
SCP-XXXX (Formal Designation Pending)
Object Class: {{?}}
Containment Procedures: Due to its nature, SCP-XXXX is difficult, if not impossible, to contain fully. SCP-XXXX-A is to {{be kept guarded}} {{expand this.}}
Description: SCP-XXXX consists of two components, SCP-XXXX-A and SCP-XXXX-B. SCP-XXXX-A is a small handbook, with a dark green cover, entitled U.S.O.A.D.(1) Guide To Psychic & Reality-Affecting Warfare. It is believed that only one copy of SCP-XXXX-A remains in existence, though do to the nature of SCP-XXXX, it remains impossible to rule out the possibility that others remain. SCP-XXXX-A is largely non-anomalous, detailing rudimentary theory in the field of memetics and antimemetics (these portions of the book are freely available to Foundation researchers working in relevant fields. Consult Anomalous Research Protocol 841 for details). The book's 32nd section however, consisting of pages 47 to 49, has a notable memetic effect. This section details the acquisition and operation of SCP-XXXX-B (see below). The passages themselves are not believed to be anomalous, as effects have only ever manifested on test subjects reading these passages from XXXX-A itself. The trigger phrase transcribed below(2), when read from XXXX-A, is believed to cause the subject to acquire an instance of XXXX-B. Testing indicates that it is likely only possible for any one person to acquire one instance of XXXX-B.
If you are reading this we ask that you please KEEP TRACK OF THIS BAZOOKA. This armament is your only defense against [DATA EXPUNGED]. Keeping this weapon visualized at all times is the only proven defense against them and it is thus extremely important to KEEP A CLEAR MENTAL IMAGE OF THIS BAZOOKA at all times, DO NOT LOSE TRACK OF THIS BAZOOKA. Perform emergency checks on your palms at least once every 30 minutes while KEEPING A CLEAR MENTAL IMAGE OF THIS BAZOOKA, once again DO NOT focus on anything but this weapon. [EXPUNGED] issued to all personnel trained in psychic & reality-altering warfare. If you are receiving this message you need to CONTINUE TO KEEP TRACK OF THIS BAZOOKA.
Upon reading the trigger passage, subjects invariably report a mental picture of an SCP-XXXX-B instance sticks itself in their mind. In general, subjects initially describe this as a sort of permanent "background noise". Over time however (in a period varying in length from three weeks to up to two years), this image becomes more and more difficult for the subject to ignore or discard. In addition, many subjects report that other mental images--as well as audio, text, video, smells, tastes, and so on--begin to "cross-talk" into the image of the SCP-XXXX-B instance (these are believed to originate from targets of XXXX-B, see testing table for a non-exhaustive list). Subjects become increasingly irritable and prone to lacking in focus over this period, occasionally becoming violent. Without fail, subjects eventually succumb to sudden, severe brain injuries {there's a better term for this probably, but I can't think of it}, including hemorraging, strokes, seizures, and in at least one instance, sudden anomalous physical removal of the brain from the skull. If treated with amnestics {word?} before this, subjects have shown a near-100% recovery rate, but become unable to envision or use instances of XXXX-B, as well as become immune to the effects of reading the trigger passage.
SCP-XXXX-B is the collective name for an unknown quantity of anomalous weapons, which bear a superficial similarity to a simple pipe-shaped shoulder-fired missile launcher, commonly known as a bazooka, with the exception of their unusual perceived (3) color, a dark red. XXXX-B instances are not visible or otherwise perceptible to the naked eye except by subjects currently using them, instances of XXXX-B are not perceptible to subjects using other instances of XXXX-B. XXXX-B instances are described by XXXX-A as "information-destroying devices". Due to their nature, the effects of XXXX-B instances are difficult to study directly, however it is believed at present that XXXX-B instances, once used, effectively engulf their targets in an "information self-erasure field". Information regarding targets of XXXX-B becomes unable to be recorded or recalled in any fashion, except by accidental recollection via XXXX-B instances' own "cross-talk" feedback. {Subjects handling XXXX-B instances describe them as lightweight, and the projectiles as small, invisible, orb-shaped, and fast moving -- not sure where to put this}
1. United States Office of Anomalous Disturbances, this department is not known to exist or have ever existed.
2. prefaced in XXXX-A with "when ready, take a deep breath and recite the following".
think you gotta sell the horror. I mean intrusive thoughts are bad but it's hard to get across the experience of having your brain eaten by them. Death is one thing but just a description doesn't seem like enough.
now, personally, when you described it before i thought like this: Clearly this description was written by someone who expected me to forget the bazooka. The kind of mental warfare implied would likely be able to make people forget things, and maybe even make them construct memories afterward. So it's possible that I am actually some kind of mental warfare soldier, but I've been hit pretty bad and forgot about all of it, except for this bazooka I've been specially issued, which won't get out of my head so that I can retain it in this situation. Therefore it's possible that everything I know and see around me except the bazooka is a lie implanted by an enemy who means me harm, so I need to start destroying things.
i have thoughts like that a lot so personally that's the angle I'd go for. Test subjects just slowly convincing themselves that they're under attack, and using increasing violence, including possibly the bazooka (which, as you've written it, would be pretty good for escaping). Coming up with delusional fictions about their past lives. Maybe leave USOAD undefined and have people come up with initialisms for it, that kind of thing.
If you don't want to do that and stick with intrusion you should just flesh out the description of the increasing focus on the stupid thing. Some interviews and such I guess.
A third angle would be to imply that the zookers have been used in a way the Foundation is not aware of. You know, like in introductory antimemetics where the guy's like, shouldn't this huge site have more people? That sorta thing.
Comments
"Hey. Hey!" I shake her, I think it's a her anyway, hair's long and bleach blonde, guys don't usually look like that. It's hard to make out much else. She lets out a pained moan. Not dead yet, that's good.
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
also, I literally did not catch it until Bill showed up
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
"Huh?" I blink, and pause long enough to make it awkward.
"How is she?" I jump a bit. I suspect most people are probably not startled by their own voices, but when you haven't used it in a while, well....
"Which is?"
"Well...." more feet shuffling. "I mean no ill, Captain, but since Captain Blackerl's been gone, I feel that I've little reason t' be on this ship anymore."
He slipped the ball from his hands to mine. I'd never felt so small before. It had a symbol printed on it, one I didn't recognize.
"We will leave. The lives of our people matter more to me than the sanctity of our land."
now, personally, when you described it before i thought like this: Clearly this description was written by someone who expected me to forget the bazooka. The kind of mental warfare implied would likely be able to make people forget things, and maybe even make them construct memories afterward. So it's possible that I am actually some kind of mental warfare soldier, but I've been hit pretty bad and forgot about all of it, except for this bazooka I've been specially issued, which won't get out of my head so that I can retain it in this situation. Therefore it's possible that everything I know and see around me except the bazooka is a lie implanted by an enemy who means me harm, so I need to start destroying things.
i have thoughts like that a lot so personally that's the angle I'd go for. Test subjects just slowly convincing themselves that they're under attack, and using increasing violence, including possibly the bazooka (which, as you've written it, would be pretty good for escaping). Coming up with delusional fictions about their past lives. Maybe leave USOAD undefined and have people come up with initialisms for it, that kind of thing.
If you don't want to do that and stick with intrusion you should just flesh out the description of the increasing focus on the stupid thing. Some interviews and such I guess.
A third angle would be to imply that the zookers have been used in a way the Foundation is not aware of. You know, like in introductory antimemetics where the guy's like, shouldn't this huge site have more people? That sorta thing.