There was a land for us. We squandered it. Is it so strange that we squandered everything else as well?
- O5-4, personal diary.
Entry for the Dystopia Contest, as I presume it's evident by now. In any case, lemme get stuff out of the way for all of us.
All images are mine and posted as CC compliant Because Fuck Yeah Watermarks.
SCP items used or mentioned and GoI mentioned in this entry are:
- SCP-179.
- SCP-1778, referenced.
- Dr. Wondertainment, referenced.
- SCP-1795, discussed.
- SCP-499.
- SCP-990/Nobody.
- SCP-1795, referenced.
- The Church of the Broken God, referenced and subverted.
- SCP-2000, referenced by mentioning Scranton Reality Anchors and Xyank-Anastasakos Constant Time Sinks.
- Nobody/Oneiroi.
- Fifth Church.
- SCP-1425.
So many people in chat, with FFB to be mentioned specifically for giving me the title. Man, the title. Man. /hype
But, you know, kudos to AndarielHalo, Kalinin, Cimmerian, Zolgamax, KateMcTiriss, TrennerD (Researcher Dios), Fantem, Soulless, FortuneFavorsBold, Reject, "My-Heart-Is-Polonium-Ore" Djoric, Metaphysician, Tagliafierro, Crayne, ProcyonLotor, Dmatix AND A BUNCH OTHER PEOPLE
Please warn me if I left you out of that sentence. I know I'm not naming y'all. :(
God lays dead. Just a smudge of ashen-black, some unspeakable parts and memories left of Him; Gunther has seen it go. And, with his head between his knees, he wonders…
What had he seen in Him?
The priest looks at his old watch.
Thirteen minutes.
The earthly vessel that had contained Him has been broken in pieces, turn asunder by the hands of an invisible power… His own, perhaps? Could God wish to die? He had told Gunther there were great things coming, great challenges. He had declared this part of His Plan!
Then why hadn't He warned His Prophet?
Ten minutes.
The church would have been ill-prepared, of course, for the mission He has given Gunther. Catholicism is a fringe sect these days, replaced by the government-sponsored Innerly dogma.
Nine minutes.
Gunther grunts. Even in his sorrow, he can see why the Innerly dogma succeeded. It promises nothing more than what the individual can achieve, and makes the individual able to achieve it. It is a religion of the self, a religion of egotism, not of sacrifice… and the peoples of Earth prefer an easy life.
Six minutes.
And so they had it. Easy, peaceful life, caged in the unending nightmare of the new Babel, copied once and again all over the planet. And they took the miracles and hid them underground. They took the daemons and took them to the stars. But they could not have God, and God would not have them.
God, instead, had chosen him.
Four minutes.
Gunther hits the back of his head. God is dead. God is not dead. Is God dead? Hesitation, hesitation, why hesitation! Is it not the truth!? He grunts. It would have been so easy to simply embrace the new ways, to accept Innerly doctrine, to cast aside the old book and admit defeat! Now he has to deal with his own fear, his own confusion, his own doubts.
Three minutes.
A test, he thinks. It is just a test. But he will be done soon. Gunther steels himself; it is coming. Rapture is coming, as promised by God. In fiery retribution, the pride of the Federation will tremble and break and He will be there to catch the pieces and let Gunther bring people together again.
Two minutes.
Because HE said it! HE said there would be fire! HE said there would be brass trumpets reaching over the horizon!
One minute.
Gunther feels out of breath, almost guilty of knowing what is coming, heart fighting his way through his chest, extatic in the knowledge that retribution is coming. Because it is coming…
… isn't it?
The time comes and goes by. The automatic metal shutters the blasted Federation had installed years ago over the Church's windows remain closed. The world remains behind them. Gunther remains silent.
When the lobotomized D-Identifiers of the Federation come into the old ruin of a temple looking for the SCP-343, they will only find the mummified corpse of the last true believer.
Discarded
More than disliking this part, I just dislike 343, even when I kill it.
"As expected, many of them remain active, anomalous and real." Reach sighs. Of course they do. "However, most of the 'immortal' humanoid objects are either disgregated into dust or completely dematerialized… but specific gravity in their locations has gone up by several decimals. Best of luck to 17-E personnel, I guess. Furthermore, D-Classes pitched in the containment enclosures of these items at the time of Border activation have been affected by various cognitive effects, most of them themed and loosely connected to the original qualities exhibited by the humanoid objects."
Reach browses through the eighteen decks of Area-08. The float is filled with alarms, silenced by the user a while ago; lots of "empty" cells now.
"Passive items remain mostly unaffected. I recommend to leave them alone, particularly those Safe and Keter items that have not been seemingly affected by the activation… Keter items might just be biding their time, and most Safe items are of little consequence at the time. Since Euclid items have been responding in a number of unexpected ways, observation and containment remain our main priority, with testing becoming a third-phase concern."
The memeticist sips from the warm caffeine mug. It is cold and incredibly sweet; just the stimuli a brain needs at this time of the day. Reach wonders why they had to do this at midnight, then smirks. Childish, spoiled little runt… Somewhere out there, it is not even midnight! And somewhere out there, further away, the Earth is a speck in the "morning" sky.
Reach keeps talking into the air, letting the computer transcribe every word.
"Addendum: Area personnel have been reporting different ghostly presences all over the lower deck. That is not concerning, taking into consideration what we have-had there." Reach frowns. That had been unexpected, sort of — but not very concerning. "Otherwise, the Area is secure and completely stable. We will report as scheduled. Area-08 out."
After a moment staring at the float, evaluating the minor changes the auto-manager does to make the report sound more official (not ghostly, incorporeal; nice!), the researcher nods. The computer promptly encases and formats the transcript, just like usual, and sends it to the Area Director.
Reach closes the secure F-intranet float. A dozen other floats reopen, showing pending work; a recently discovered volume of the Incunabula, dozens of sectarian files to categorize, three hundred and ninteen separate cases of memetic anomalies in the Atlantic area alone and a few requests from Sol-corps to update their selling strategies. The researcher sighs and stands, reaching for another fill of caffeine to the foodprinter…
… and catches a glimpse of Area-08 below, and of the Sprawl above, through the diminutive window of the room. It is bustling with life, almost covering all the underlying ocean in metal and concrete. Thousands of lives, restlessly playing into the hands of the Federation, all of them ignorant.
Blissfully so, Reach thinks. For generations, Memeticists of Area-08 have overwritten their past and memories upon accepting their role precisely because they did not want to know for sure… What they would have missed, what they had casted away, what they sacrificed. Of course, Reach did know some things: the city grew over Area-08 as the lower decks kept pumping the blood that would become its bones, its superstructures, its homes. It is almost as restless as those who live within it.
And, Reach knows, those who live underneath it. Restless… yes, that is how I feel.
The liquid caffeine pours into the mug. Its jet black hue reminds Reach of the lower deck, of that wound that once puked ichor into the ocean, and makes the memeticist connect ideas, idly, gently, messily.
Aeons ago, the tribes of whalers and fishers would use the bones of their pray to make clothing, weapons, tools, pieces of many a craft. Why not, the Foundation reasoned, do the same with the blood of the world under the world?
But certain memes, old memes, memes born of the bones of old languages and pure human nonsense, not in the workshops of today, teach more than what one could forget. Reach knows. She smiles again, remembering one of them.
"No rest for the wicked."
The young woman sets to work again, restless as she feels. The night is young and the stars are brand new.
Discarded
Would I like my author avatar to exist in a contest tale? Sure, at first the O5 was gonna be Reach, but then I thought about it (I mean, really think about it) and simply discarded it. Besides, the Wound is a plan of mine, not yet written nor published. It was not the time.
A world away, Caricia Volyanova looks at the stars.
They are not quite right anymore, are they?
True, they are neat and brilliant. As they should. True, they are far away and mysterious, she would have it any other way! True, there are all those shows on the tele, saying "trips between stars are possible now! Let's go and find out what's out there!", and it turns out its horrible monsters and cruel aliens that look a lot like people she knows. Like the bullies
teachers call them prospective dees
and the teachers
bullies call them old sods
and the people that talk from the tele and go "Stars are beyond our reach. Humanity was always meant to stay on Earth. All there is for us, is here; is it not enough?"
everyone hates those people because they are right
Caricia grimaces. Not quite right at all.
That one is on its place, sure. And that one. Even that one. That one, that one, that one. No, wait, they're all in their places, that's not the problem…
"Love, mom is back! Come, supper's ready!"
… is it the color? Because she knows, some are blue. And some are red. And some are green. And some are… how were those? Black, or something? But she can't make out the colors, they all look white-ish to her.
"How was it, hon?"
"Horrible… those-those people from Blackwood again."
"But… it was nothing, was it? I mean, you haven't heard the voices in… well, such a long time! Months now, right? Carie, dear, supper!"
No, no, it's not the color.
"What should I do?"
"Nothing. It's their job to do what's necessary."
"You're just repeating that ad on the tele, I don't-see, I'm scared."
It's the distance. They're the right size, but…
"I know, sweetie… hey, come here."
… they are not real. They are not real, they can't be. The stars are not real anymore.
"I'm just, I'm just scared!"
The thought hits Caricia suddenly, like a lightning. She is looking at the inside of the largest nightlight ever created by humankind. It's too great, too large. And still…
it is just not enough for you
… still…
stuck here, in these ten pitful planets
… still…
but you can dream, can't you. dream of the greater places that are lost to you
… she can still see the stars beyond.
They are not the stars she sees, but the ones she imagines.
Caricia sees worlds of ice cream and fudge and candy, populated by giant and extremely huggable teddy bears driving plush airships and riding on extra-large purple-and-pink kangaroos — WITH TWO TAILS EACH! She feels a giggle coming up her throat, but something makes her sink it deep, deep within the chest, close to her heart.
Caricia feels the need to go and shout at the world that wonders still exist, that dreams still exist, that children like her are the future. Adventures, and stories, and tales, and laughter to be had. No matter what, no matter how,
we will make toys for them, and
she will make wonders.
She goes to her mothers, who laugh like tinkling bells on an alarm clock, no longer caring for the universe. Makers such as her know better; she can always look within.
Discarded
This negated the part of Wondertainment not existing anymore. An interesting idea, but ultimately discarded in favor of the mild dystopia of prefabricated dreams and social constructs made up by the Foundation in order to appeal to their "customers."
Aileen was looking at the massive block of tubes and cogs and gears. It was working.
It was not supposed to do that. She dropped her standard-issue broom and ran to the door, her standard-issue trainers squeaking against the utterly homologized keraplastic floor.
The door would not bulge, and she knew it on advance. After all, it was the same model of door she had on her deeclass cell. She tried to use the ID chips in her wrist, even connected her cranial implants to the Site-19 intranet; unsurprisingly, the terminal of SCP-914 was closed, physically disconnected from the rest of the facility. She yanked the fine wire out of the plughole, grunting in fear and anger.
The door was sealed. The fuckers had told her it was just a cleaning cycle, nothing else. Why, they hadn't even turn in the alarms-
And that was when Aileen noticed that, indeed, the alarms were quiet. That was not normal.
She had never been assigned to SCP-914, not even in cleaning duty. She had heard stories about it, of course, half-heard references and rumors; possibly misinformation, she suspected. Aileen wasn't dumb; she knew she had been marked as D-class material because she had a problem with authority, not because of some imaginary genetic or mental disorder. Well, it might be something in her genes, going back to the days when her ancestors had been with a group of interest or the other; she did not really know, she did not really care.
She wondered about her not caring often. She assumed it was probably the implants. At that point, she just walked up and down the room, searching for a way out, for a place to hide. There was none. Why would there be? Dees were the only ones allowed in here.
Aileen could only turn and behold the massive cube as the gears turned, thinking, thinking; what to do? What did she know of 914?
914 was regarded with a sort of respectful fear by every dee she knew. She had heard of grown people, experienced pokers and augmented dees that had entered the 914 room after an experiment and never got out. She had heard of 914's modular room being flooded with acid, cleaning bioplasma and fire to get rid of whatever it spawned. True, she knew most of the time it was harmless, but that was it. It wasn't harmless every time.
And 914 was unable to do anything on its own, they said. So why was it… working? Had she inadvertedly done something? Had she-No. No, she hadn't, and she had to remain calm at all costs.
The woman looked up to the ceiling, where the absent, glassy eyes of the cameras turned their gaze towards her.
This was testing. What were they testing?
Then, the sound of machinery stopped. Aileen turned to see SCP-914, again paralyzed. The gears had stopped turning, the tubes had stopped vibrating, and the two doors remained closed.
Then, a cog fell from a side of the cube. It hit the ground like a bullet shell in an empty Wall Street, and twice as noisily.
And another, from over the edge. That one sounded somewhat softer.
And then another, and another, and another. Aileen could hear the insides of the machine collapsing on themselves; terrified, she could do nothing but stare (and hear) as the sides of the machine turned into a tide of pieces, some lethally edged, some impossibly hefty, a few infinitely strange.
The D-Class woman backed away from them, as far away as she could. And then, suddenly, when she thought she was done for, the tide was over, and so was SCP-914.
The Machinery was no more.
Aileen breathed, suddenly feeling alive, more alive than ever. True, it looked like there were far too many pieces there; far too many for a thing that had been large, indeed, but nowhere large enough to house so much fucking metal.
Irrelevant, Aileen thought. She turned to the cameras again.
"Well, just get me out again! Whatever you did, it killed the fucking thing!"
She did not expect an answer. That was what made her startled when the answer (a mechanical, distorted voice from the heavens) came.
"Please, D-445-331-18, open the Output booth and describe its contents."
Aileen did not argue. She was probably gonna get probed for a month to check if she had been contaminated by something anyways, but she didn't need a full brain inspection on top of that.
Aileen waded through the sea of brass and copper and silver streaks, trying to find the interred booths she had seen closed at first, now washed away in the mechanical wave.
When Aileen found the door of the output booth, she found it deformed and cracked; she had to use a long, cylindrical piece to force it open again. That was when she saw inside a little thing, a little, golden thing.
The thing was like a Fabergé egg, covered in black drawings of clockwork. The drawings moved, ever so slowly, but they moved.
Surprised before her own bravery, Aileen reached for it, podering its lightness, wondering what could be born of that egg.
Discarded
Did not like the ending, and was too long anyways.
(account deleted)
