Map of the moon’s Earth-facing hemisphere, with Emission Sites 1-4 and their corresponding SCP-8416-1 zones labeled in red, yellow, green, and blue respectively
Special Containment Procedures: There are currently no sanctioned procedures intended to actively contain SCP-8416 or conceal its existence from the civilian populace, as doing so is considered infeasible and unnecessary, respectively. To date, no known individuals or organizations outside of the Foundation are capable of detecting SCP-8416, through technology or otherwise. If this exclusivity is threatened at any point in the future, the Veil Maintenance Department will be tasked with suppression and/or termination efforts as needed, with the optimal strategy to be determined on a case-by-case basis. To date, no such intervention has been required.
All Foundation personnel of Level-1 Clearance or higher are to be given a standardized summary of SCP-8416’s nature and properties during their initial employment orientations, following the standard introductory overview regarding the existence of anomalies. Personnel with Level-0 Clearance are not to be informed of SCP-8416 or related phenomena in any capacity. Level-0 staff assigned to SCP-8416-1 sites are to be permitted to enter and exit said facilities at regularly scheduled intervals under the pretense of conventional employment within their respective occupation.
Foundation personnel who’s employment is terminated under dishonorable circumstances are to have all knowledge relating to SCP-8416 erased through the requisite level of amnesthetization, with adverse complications from treatment regarded as a secondary concern.
Description: SCP-8416 is an audiospacial frequency originating from the collective vibration of the away-facing hemisphere of Earth’s moon. The mechanism behind this vibration is not thoroughly understood, but it is theorized to represent an extreme manifestation of quantum superpositioning, catalyzed by the away-facing hemisphere's relative size and proximity to the population of Earth, coupled with its total lack of visibility to said population. This results in the instantaneous relocation of all affected particles between 2 adjacent points in space perpetually. Although precisely measuring the resulting waveform is technologically infeasible at this time, it has been determined to be of an unequivocally higher frequency than any other known sound, anomalous or otherwise, by several orders of magnitude. SCP-8416’s wavelength is estimated to be significantly less than a planck’s length. Because of this, SCP-8416 travels through the medium of physical reality itself, rendering it imperceptible to all conventional organisms and technology, and enabling its transmission through the vacuum of space.
SCP-8416 is continuously generated and is subsequently focused and amplified within the moon through a currently unknown process, before being emitted in linear beams from 4 large craters on the the surface of the moon’s Earth-facing hemisphere, designated Emission Sites 1-4. Each crater serves as the exit point of 4 separate SCP-8416 emissions, resulting in a total of 16 beams, all of which are directed at the Earth during approximately 50% of each day-night cycle.
SCP-8416-1 designates 16 circular portions of Earth’s surface that are each targeted by an SCP-8416 beam, individually designated SCP-8416-1A through SCP-8416-1P. SCP-8416-1 instances are invariably 1.24km in diameter, and are positioned at static and seemingly random terrestrial locations distributed across Earth’s entire surface area. SCP-8416 beams remain focused on their respective SCP-8416-1 zones for as long as they are in range1. Outside of these periods, SCP-8416 beams are directed into deep space with no discernable target. Despite experiencing consistent intervals when SCP-8416 is not present, SCP-8416-1 zones display their anomalous properties at all times. The exact nature of the causal connection between the two has not been definitively determined.
Map of SCP-8416-1 zones, labeled in colors corresponding to their respective Emission Sites as outlined in the previous diagram.
Locations, objects, and events observed by a sapient entity within the perimeter of an SCP-8416-1 zone cannot be recalled correctly upon exiting said perimeter. During this momentary transition period, all memories formed within the SCP-8416-1 zone are erased and replaced with a realistic fictional narrative that the brain then accepts as an accurate recollection. These false memories align with the amount of time spent within the SCP-8416-1 zone to a reasonable degree, and account for any alterations to one’s person that occurred during this period, such as changes in clothing or injuries. Multiple visits to a particular zone by a single individual result in false narratives that are logically consistent between occasions. When multiple individuals exit an SCP-8416-1 zone at the same approximate time and location, the resulting false memories align factually between all parties. Forms of documentation originating from within an SCP-8416-1 zone (written descriptions, videos, etc.) do not physically change upon crossing the perimeter. Nevertheless, they are perceived by individuals who subsequently view them as aligning with their respective fictional narrative, even when said individuals were not informed of this narrative prior to viewing. The same phenomenon affects any live transmissions originating from within an SCP-8416-1 zone, with perceived alterations to their content aligning with fabricated memories later implanted into any individual(s) involved with the transmission upon exiting said zone. Any entity or device that remotely observes an SCP-8416-1 zone from a position outside of its perimeter can accurately perceive the space within it until observation ceases, at which point an equivalent memory alteration event occurs. Likewise, both direct recordings and secondary transcriptions of said observation become perceptually inaccurate at this time. The cumulative result of these properties is a complete informational vacuum regarding the current or former contents and transpirations present in actuality within an SCP-8416-1 zone from any external perspective.
Memories implanted through SCP-8416 exposure vary widely in subject matter and are often extremely elaborate, with their degree of complexity positively correlating with the length of continuous time spent within an SCP-8416-1 zone. General elements that are frequently present within narratives derived from SCP-8416 exposure include2:
- Traveling along artificial routes, such as roads and trails, when said routes were not actually encountered/present.
- Witnessing and/or interacting with natural landmarks possessing physical attributes distinct enough to be remembered in particular detail, when said landmarks were not actually encountered/present.
- Witnessing and/or interacting with Flora and Fauna endemic to the respective geographic location of the SCP-8416-1 zone, with potentially positive, negative, or neutral consequences, when said organisms were not actually encountered/present.
- Witnessing and/or interacting with fellow humans, typically individuals that are ethnically correlated to the respective SCP-8416-1 zone, with potentially positive, negative, or neutral consequences, when said humans were not actually encountered/present and may or may not correspond to real individuals.
- Witnessing and/or interacting with various objects/structures of apparently man-made origin, either currently or formerly in use, of a similar/identical design to existent man-made inventions and plausibly consistent with the respective SCP-8416-1 zone, when said objects/structures were not actually encountered/present.
- Experiencing various forms of miscellaneous phenomena, such as weather patterns and tectonic activity, that did not actually occur within the SCP-8416-1 zone during the time frame of immersion.
Likewise, any locations, objects, organisms, individuals, or events encountered in actuality within an SCP-8416-1 zone are largely absent from their corresponding fictitious narrative, with the only commonalities being extremely general in nature, such as the environmental setting and time of day. This principle is only overridden when multiple sapient entities are concurrently present in close proximity to each other, as each entity recalls the presence of all other entities in a manner that is consistent across all parties.
Memories created through SCP-8416 exposure invariably lack any elements that would conflict with the affected individual’s fundamental understanding of the universe, and are thus typically free of anomalous content.
SCP-8416’s cognitive effects exhibit referential negation3, meaning prior knowledge of SCP-8416’s existence and general description provides immunity to its influence. The informational components necessary to acquire this immunity are divided into 5 basic categories:
- Knowledge of SCP-8416’s origin, that being the away-facing hemisphere, or “dark side”, of Earth’s moon.
- Knowledge of SCP-8416’s physical nature and composition, that being a high-energy sound wave. Details regarding SCP-8416’s subspacial resonance properties are not required. Rather, one only has to know that SCP-8416 is a sound of some kind, and that it is higher in both amplitude and frequency than typical sounds. Understanding this information through layman's terms, such as “loud” and “high-pitched”, is also effective.
- Knowledge of SCP-8416’s pattern of emission, that being a continuous and unwavering tone. Retaining the impression that SCP-8416 emission is brief, temporary, or variably staggered in any way prevents the development of immunity, as does presuming that it ceased at some point in the past or will begin at some point in the future.
- Knowledge of SCP-8416's primary target, that being the planet Earth. Knowledge of more specific geographical locations is unnecessary, as is knowledge of the exact proportion of time that SCP-8416 beams are directed at Earth.
- Understanding that the preceding information is categorically true in reality. No further details are required. Misconceptions regarding any further aspects of SCP-8416 do not impact immunity.
Individuals who possess this knowledge are able to enter and exit SCP-8416-1 zones without experiencing anomalous memory alterations, and thus can accurately recall contents and experiences therein with a typical level of detail and precision.
Addendum 8416.1: 04/21/1962: Discovery
SCP-8416 was first detected through an experimental Subspace Resonance Detector (SRD) developed as part of the Foundation’s Worldwide Anomalous Monitoring Initiative (FWAMI)4. Once perfected, the SRD was able to identify and locate all 16 SCP-8416-1 zones, though their anomalous psychological properties remained unknown.
On-site investigation of all SCP-8416-1 zones was subsequently conducted by Research Associate Dr. Carter Rattigan. The effects of SCP-8416 exposure were assessed through D-Class trials wherein subjects were instructed to enter and explore SCP-8416-1 zones for varying lengths of time. Subjects were not informed of the purpose of these experiments or the nature of their assigned locations.
Upon the conclusion of these initial experiments, no physical or psychological aberrations were found in participating subjects. Thus, researchers were authorized to conduct expeditions into SCP-8416-1 zones directly, under the condition that D-Class personnel accompany each foray for the purpose of exploring any potentially hazardous areas. Knowledge of SCP-8416 remained undisclosed to participating subjects during these operations, leading to the incidental discovery of SCP-8416’s anomalous cognitive effects, as the recollections of returning researchers contradicted those of returning D-Class personnel. Finer nuances of SCP-8416-1’s properties were subsequently determined through trial and error.
Addendum 8416.2: 10/09/1962: Preliminary Documentation
Aside from the presence of SCP-8416, SCP-8416-1 zones exhibit no inherent anomalous features, and are visually indistinct from the areas surrounding them. The following is a general summary of each SCP-8416-1 location and the contents therein. Information was compiled by Dr. Rattigan during SCP-8416’s initial research phase:
Addendum 8416.3: 09/16/1967: O5-Proposal 8416
The following proposal was submitted to the O5 Council by Head Researcher Dr. Rattigan following the completion of initial study into SCP-8416 and SCP-8416-1 locations:
UPDATE: O-5 referendum ruled in favor of Dr. Rattigan’s proposal7. PD: Project-8416 has been approved as of 10/17/1967.
Addendum 8416.4: 01/12/1968: Project Black Moon
Directed by Chief Research Coordinator Dr. Rattigan, Project Black Moon (PBM) was an international construction and dissemination project primarily centered around SCP-8416 and its associated phenomena.
PBM’s directives were divided into 2 central categories:
- Establishment of secure Foundation sites within SCP-8416-1 zones, initially consisting of strategic operative and temporary containment infrastructure, before eventually expanding to include research, long-term containment, and administrative residence facilities. Due to the efficacy of their self-concealing properties, SCP-8416-1 sites have become the primary locations for all substantial Foundation operations.
- Universal disclosure of knowledge regarding SCP-8416 among all Foundation staff of Level-1 Clearance or above for the purpose of referential negation. This knowledge has been gradually streamlined into a vague yet concise declarative statement providing the minimum amount of information necessary to develop immunity to SCP-8416: “The black moon howls ceaselessly upon us”. This phrase is uttered repeatedly over the course of a standard Foundation orientation seminar, translated into the corresponding language thereof, and is used in reference to both those present in the immediate vicinity, the Foundation as a whole, and humanity as a whole, and is typically accompanied by at least 1 simplistic but intuitively understandable illustration. This practice improves the ease in which personnel can coordinate and travel between SCP-8416-1 sites, which will almost certainly be required at some point in their career. Likewise, the concealment of this information from Level-0 personnel enables the employment of necessary maintenance and janitorial staff within SCP-8416-1 sites without the risk of a security breach. Said staff’s false memories of their employment are internally consistent and largely aligned with their respective occupations, with the only substantial deviations from reality concerning the type of facility they work in, which is invariably recalled as mundane and free of anomalous phenomena.
Incidentally, the dissemination of this information among all and only authorized Foundation staff has resulted in the popularization of an informal social custom among English-speaking personnel, particularly undercover field operatives, used to assess a given individual’s affiliation with the Foundation in a swift and discreet manner. The practice consists of asking the individual in question “Does the black moon howl?”. Subjects that are in fact members of the Foundation will reply with either “Ceaselessly upon us” or the acronym thereof: “Cuu”8, depending on the level of discretion necessitated by their current circumstances. The abbreviated response is distinct enough to recognize but simple and brief enough to be obscured by additional statements and sounds, such as sneezing. Although this technique has reportedly been helpful in numerous improvisatory situations, it is far from infallible, and is thus not an officially recognized procedure. Personnel are advised to employ formal Foundation identification methods, such as clearance-codes and retinal scans, whenever possible.
PBM operated from 1968-1975, at which point its objectives were deemed comprehensively successful, and it was thus reclassified as concluded. However, procedures required to maintain the achievements of PBM have been codified as standard practice within the Foundation, and to date continue in perpetuity.
Addendum 8416.5: 03/03/2007: Incident Report
On 03/03/2007, at 12:21 Australian Western Standard Time, EDICT9 Dr. Rattigan entered SCP-8416-1O, now designated PrimeSite-O, through the gate positioned along its eastern quadrant. Upon crossing the perimeter of the zone, Dr. Rattigan immediately disappeared and/or ceased being visible from his location. The vehicle in which he was traveling continued to operate without guidance until halted within a nearby ditch. This event was corroborated by both security camera footage and multiple direct witnesses. Said witnesses, one of whom was Site Director Dr. Andrew Folkes, had planned to convene with Dr. Rattigan at the border and accompany him to O-Res10. A site-wide investigation was subsequently initiated, but to date is designated inconclusive due to a complete lack of evidence discovered regarding the nature of this event or the current status of Dr. Rattigan. On account of this, the case has been elevated to a Foundation-wide endeavor. All personnel of Level-1 Clearance or higher who believe they can possibly provide insight into this incident are strongly encouraged to contact PrimeSite-O’s Office of Internal Affairs11. To this end, a synopsis of all currently known information deemed to be potentially pertinent is provided below:
- Dr. Rattigan’s career had directly involved SCP-8416 and SCP-8416-1 zones for approximately 45 years preceding his disappearance (1962-2007).
- During this time frame, Dr. Rattigan had been pivotal in the initial research of SCP-8416 and related phenomena, as well as the development and execution of Project Black Moon.
- Dr. Rattigan had visited SCP-8416-1O on 15 prior occasions, and had conducted a greater number of visitations to each of the other SCP-8416-1 zones, all without incident.
- No other instances of individuals disappearing while crossing an SCP-8416-1 perimeter, with or without referential negation, are known.
- The moon was in a waning gibbous phase at the time of the incident.
- The moon was not visible from SCP-8416-1O at the time of the incident.
- On the occasion of his disappearance, Dr. Rattigan had traveled to SCP-8416-1O for the purposes of officially announcing his retirement, attending a social function celebrating his distinguished career, and appointing Dr. Folkes to the position of EDICT in his stead.
Due to the indeterminate nature of this event and the currently ongoing investigation thereof, all nonessential travel into or out of SCP-8416-1 zones has been suspended until further notice. Contact your direct supervisor for more information.
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ENTRIES FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF DR. CARTER RATTIGAN
Upload Time: 03/05/2007, 19:54 AWST
Files Attached: 9-
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Well, I’m finally here. The trip was long, but it went about as smoothly as I could have expected. I slept through most of the flight, so I felt comfortable starting the driving leg shortly after landing. Although I managed to outpace the sun for a few hours, I still got caught in the sweltering late-morning heat toward the end of the journey. The Foundation rental’s crappy AC couldn’t keep up, so I was awfully sweaty by the time I arrived, but otherwise no worse for wear.
Andrew had offered to meet me in person at the entrance, which was quite considerate of him given his busy schedule. Perhaps he wanted some words of encouragement before the torch is officially passed. Feeling some trepidation is understandable, big shoes and whatnot, but he has nothing to worry about in my opinion. His suitability for the role of EDICT has been clear to me for over a decade now, ever since he helped resolve the Great Barrier Trench fiasco. I literally wrote the book on RN-P constructs, and even I couldn’t figure it out. I’d probably still be rerouting cargo the long way if it weren’t for him. I truly couldn’t be any more confident in someone’s aptitude for this position.
He was parked just inside the gate, along with some assistants. It's funny, knowing what the perimeter fences represent, I always expect some sort of… I don’t know, something, when I pass through them. A feeling, a sense, anything at all to indicate its significance. There never is, of course, given the limitations of human perception, but no matter how many times I cross, there’s still a part of me that always expects it, and I think today I was finally right.
It was only a moment, gone before I even had time to think. I saw Andrew and the others, and heard my tires rolling across the course dirt road. Then I saw two Andrews, two of everyone in his cohort, two gates, two everything. The sound of the tires crescendoed into an ear-piercing screech similar to microphone feedback; I’m still unsure whether it was an audible malfunction of my hearing aids or entirely mental in nature. I felt the strongest sense of vertigo I’ve ever had, like when you abruptly wake up after falling in a dream. Then, all at once, it passed, and everything was normal again. I don’t think the back of my car had even passed the threshold yet. I still felt a bit shaken as I got out to greet Andrew and his associates. I think they must have noticed, but they didn’t say anything. Maybe they chalked it up to the more sentimental aspects of these circumstances, to me preparing to secede from what has been my life’s work, to knowingly entering a -1 zone for what will probably be the last time. That’s what I chalked it up to, anyway. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad to be doing this —I’ve been overdue for retirement and some well-deserved relaxation, and I’m confident in the legacy I’ll be leaving behind—, but it’s still turning out to be a surreal experience. Even now, long after I’ve settled in here, I just can’t shake the feeling that something is… off.
Andrew and his convoy led me to 1O-Res and gave me a brief tour of the building. From what I’ve seen so far, everything is going according to plan. The staff have really outdone themselves with the ceremony preparations. They showed me the auditorium where I’ll give my speech, the banquet hall where a buffet is already being prepared, and lastly my personal accommodations. It’s little more than a bed, desk, and bathroom, but it's more than sufficient to me, as I don’t plan on spending much time cooped up in here anyway, what with all the festivities.
Andrew seemed to grow distracted toward the end of the tour. His commentary on the last few locations sounded as though they were far more abbreviated than he had originally planned. His statements were short and curt, and he kept having to leave the room to take calls. I could tell he was growing worried by the end of it. Though my curiosity was piqued, I didn’t feel it would be appropriate to pry. He wants to show me he can handle things on his own, and I want to show him that I have no doubt. I’m sure he’ll let me into the loop sooner or later. For now, I have a speech to rehearse.
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Something is wrong. I don’t know what exactly, but it’s definitely something. I’ve felt it ever since I arrived, pervasive but indescribable. At first I assumed it was just me, an internal reflection of my emotional state, but the signs have since become undeniable. Something is objectively, palpably wrong, and I think others have realized it too.
all of -1O’s external communication channels went offline yesterday. Andrew and his staff have been scrambling to fix it ever since, but so far they’ve made no headway. There are no signs of a technical malfunction on our end, just a complete lack of incoming signals. It’s not just the Foundation networks either. Civilian wifi, cell phone signals, even HAM radio, they’re all dead. We can still send transmissions, but with no receiver activity detected, it’s impossible to tell if they’re getting through to anyone.
I only recently learned all of this, Andrew called not long ago to fill me in. I’m thankful that the intrasite comms are still functional, or else I’d probably still be in the dark. I don’t think he has time for an in-person visit right now. From how he sounded, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was up all night with the comm technicians trying to fix the issue. He stayed calm and professional as he explained, but his voice betrayed his concern, frayed by exhaustion in a manner I am all too familiar with.
He finished by stating that tonight’s festivities have been officially postponed until this issue is sorted out, and that he will be announcing a sitewide extrazonal lockdown in the near future, so I’ll have to stay on site grounds for the time being. He actually apologized to me for the inconvenience. Poor guy, an excellent leader, but considerate to a fault sometimes. Two sides of a coin, I suppose. I offered to help in any way I can, but he shut that idea down immediately. I heard a commotion of some kind in the background, and a few pieces clicked in my head. I asked him what time the comms went down, what exact time, but he wouldn’t say. He told me not to worry, but suggested I stay in my quarters and keep to myself for the time being. Then he hung up.
In all honesty, I feel somewhat indignant over being relegated to such an idle position. I suspect that he omitted significant aspects of the current situation; malfunctioning comms alone wouldn’t necessitate the imposition of a universal and indefinite lockdown protocol. I don’t know what exactly is happening, but I’m sure it’s somehow worse than he’s letting on. It makes sense to keep things under wraps until he fully understands the situation, so as not to cause panic among the general staff, but I would think our close affiliation would warrant some exemption from such measures. In any case, I have decided to respect his wishes, as forcefully interjecting myself would only illustrate that I don’t trust his judgment, and what would that say about my endorsement of him as my successor? No, I’ll heed his advice and stay put, at least for tonight. Maybe we’ll both be able to see things more clearly after a good night’s sleep.
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The sun never rose this morning. It got to the point when the first dull gray light creeps over the skyline, then it just stopped. The moon paused too, around the same time, stuck at its highest point in the sky. I strongly suspect that the rest of the earth outside of PrimeSite-O is also temporally frozen, but it's hard to tell since we’re surrounded by nothing but empty desert. Fortunately our clocks still work, so I can at least tell what time it’s supposed to be. For the sake of simplicity, as well as preserving at least some of my sanity, I’m going to continue logging these entries into my touchpad under the progressive dating format. For all intents and purposes, today is March 5th, and “tomorrow” will be March 6th. It may be wrong, but it’s what I’m used to, and at this point I need all the comfort I can get. Writing feels like my only reprieve from the now-undeniable severity of what is unfolding across the site.
I awoke around 6am, not long after the freeze from what I can tell. I groggily struggled to get my bearings amid the sound of rapid footsteps emanating across the -Res building and shouting from outside —Evidently, most of the staff had beaten me to the realization—, along with another sound beneath it all, the source of which I couldn’t place. A constant, faint, high-pitched ringing. It continues even now, omnipresent and unwavering. Not wishing to ponder the implications of this, I turned down the volume on my hearing aids, and to my relief it dampened accordingly. As such, I figured that it was just a technological glitch, like the feedback when I entered the zone, or the comms blackout. At least, that’s what I hoped it was.
With Andrew’s advice still in mind, I stayed in my quarters at first, trying my best to ascertain the situation from the vantage point of my window. I saw a jumble of personnel running, driving, carrying various objects. Their movements portrayed a confused and frantic energy, but they were too far to make out any finer details or discern any context. Moreover, the window was growing foggy, further obfuscating the scene. I tried calling Andrew’s mobile comm, but there was no response, and that was my tipping point. I had to go out there.
Between the darkness and overall mayhem, it was easy to keep a low profile once I left the building. Following the primary current of personnel, I reached the epicenter of the commotion: the Eastern perimeter gate, the same one I entered just a few days ago. The gate was not only open, but missing its doors entirely. Large portions of the adjacent fencing had also been demolished. Scientific equipment of just about every variety was being set up along the edge of the zone: sonar, radar, Kant Counters, Remote SRDs, and many more esoteric ones I couldn’t name on sight. Occasionally, I’d see people throwing objects over the border, mostly just rocks they picked up off the ground, though I saw one fellow shooting a firearm erratically into the surrounding darkness before being restrained. I didn’t understand why, as I saw nothing but the empty desert beyond the perimeter. Then it hit me: I saw nothing, including the objects being thrown. None of the rocks launched across the divide hit the ground on the other side. It was hard to tell exactly what happened to them in the poor lighting, but it was clearly something anomalous. With this realization, my stress level finally felt synchronized with the surrounding atmosphere. It was then that I was able to make out Andrew’s face among the turbulent crowd.
Even in the moonlight, I could tell he was abnormally pale. He wore his quintessential stone-faced expression, the one I’ve seen him don during many previous crises. Upon seeing me, he nervously took me aside, asking why I left my quarters. He said I should have called him first, and when I told him I had, several times in fact, he took out his comm unit and sighed. His next words bored a pit of anxiety into my stomach: “Sorry, guess I couldn’t hear it over the ringing”. He casually pointed to one ear as he said it, as if he had long since moved past that particular phenomenon. I, on the other hand, had still been clinging to the formerly unfalsifiable notion that it was the result of my hearing aids malfunctioning. With the passive admission that he could hear it too, my grip on that comforting assumption was severed, and my mind felt momentarily adrift. His subsequent statements felt distant and surreal, as he proceeded to explain the current state of affairs.
Apparently, in the hours following the start of the communication blackout, several employees of Level-0 Clearance (mostly janitorial) left the site at the end of their shifts as they normally would, but both they and their vehicles vanished from visible existence immediately upon crossing the perimeter. Security cameras recorded these events, but in a blunder of bureaucratic oversight, they weren’t brought to Andrew’s attention until several hours later, after almost every Level-0 shift had concluded. He tried to restrict knowledge of this development to a need-to-know basis, so as not to cause alarm, as well as to allow himself the small possibility of rescuing them. He failed on both accounts, as he made no headway in determining their fate, and the recent time freeze revealed our anomalous circumstances to everyone, which quickly led to the other peculiar phenomena coming out of the bag as well.Although he was largely professional and matter-of-fact during this explanation, it was clear from slight falters in his tone that the disappearances weighed heavily on him. I tried to offer reassurances, hindsight is 20/20, anomalies are unpredictable by definition, but I knew they wouldn’t get through to him. I’ve offered the same impotent platitudes to myself on many occasions. They don’t work, yet you can’t help but try. You hold out hope that the rationality of these statements will somehow cut through the impermeable guilt you feel, but it never does. I’m sure we’re both used to the cycle by now.
To his credit, the uncertainty he felt was revealed only to me. Once he got a hold of a megaphone and connected to the sitewide intercoms, he resumed the pretense of poise and authority necessary to manage the growing hysteria. He delegated the tasks of performing routine containment and maintenance procedures, which obviously cannot be neglected despite the circumstances. He laid out a system of food rationing, and instructed personnel to deep-freeze whatever perishables are present on site (including the buffet, not that that matters anymore). He divided the remaining staff into four encampments, each assigned to one quadrant of the perimeter, and gave instructions for a more methodical study of its properties, with he himself overseeing activities on the Eastern face.
I worked alongside him for the next several hours, mainly taking baseline readings with the Remote SRD, while he and the rest of his cohort tried more conventional mediums of detection. Unfortunately, these endeavors were fruitless; none of our measurements differed from those obtained during the zone’s initial study. With each informational dead end, the sense of unease within our group rose palpably. There was an elephant in the room, and I could tell from the looks I got from his assistants that it was me. Who can blame them? They surely know all of this started when I arrived, that somehow this is my fault. Even I can’t deny the correlation, and it’s pretty much the only clue we have as to why this could be happening. Though the tension was increasingly evident, likely exacerbated by fraying nerves and the constant ubiquitous ringing, no one dared to acknowledge it explicitly, at least not in Andrew’s presence. I got the sense that they had broached this topic with him before, and that it had been unequivocally shut down. After all, there is only one solution that can be drawn from this line of thought, one that he understandably doesn’t want to resort to, at least not yet. Though I appreciated his consideration for my well-being, I felt the weight of responsibility in the staff’s expectant gazes, and I knew I couldn’t justify upholding my safety at their expense. I realized what I had to do.
As the staff prepared to send a drone across the border, I took a moment to internally process the situation, coming to terms with the potentially imminent conclusion of my existence as best as one possibly can. Once ready, I cleared my throat, becoming the locus of their collective attention. No explanation was necessary, as context rendered my intentions recognizable to all. Andrew started to speak, no doubt formulating persuasions to the contrary, but I cut his attempt short, assuring him that it was okay, that this was for the best. I thanked everyone for their hospitality, told them it had been a pleasure working with them, and walked backward toward the perimeter. Composed as I was, I was of course still terrified of the prospect of what awaited me beyond, and I wanted my final view to be of those I would hopefully save with my sacrifice, with my eyes focussing on Andrew in particular. However, whatever heroic comforts ran through my mind in those moments were abruptly halted, as my back hit a solid, impenetrable barrier at the point of my expected transition.
The crowd’s immediate disappointment was obvious, as I foolishly pressed myself harder against the invisible wall. While this definitively proved that I was personally linked to our anomalous circumstances, the discovery brought little comfort, as the solution that everyone had, implicitly or not, placed their hopes in was clearly inviable. Back to square one, they solemnly returned their efforts to the drone.
While the remote feedback system was being calibrated, Andrew ushered me away from the others and discreetly handed me his personal Level-4 Clearance keycard. He said I should stay in his private quarters until further notice, that he’d keep in touch through his comms and inform me of any new developments that arise out here. I was reluctant to accept this for several reasons, not the least of which is that card-sharing is strictly against protocol, but he pointed out the extenuating nature of these circumstances (an undeniable truth to which I had no rebuttal), and assured me that he can just input his keycode manually to bypass any restrictions. I was going to protest further, indicating my desire to assist in resolving our shared predicament, but he seemed to anticipate this. He explained that his room has a L4-locked computer interface, through which I would have unrestricted access to the Foundation Research Database, so I should try combing through the 8416 files for information that could shed light on our dilemma. He said I have a more thorough understanding of this anomaly than anyone else, so if anyone can figure something out, it’s me. I’m sure this praise was strategic to some extent, intended to ease my mind as I was once again pushed to the sidelines, but he did have a point. My physical presence at the border was apparently useless, so perhaps my efforts would be better spent studying this phenomenon in a remote capacity.
So that’s where I am now, sitting at the desk in Andrew’s private office. This place is nicer than my former accommodations, but not extravagantly so. There’s a bathroom, a microwave, a minifridge with enough frozen food to last at least a few days, and a queen-size bed, not that I’ll be using the latter; I am a guest, afterall. I’ll sleep on the couch, that is, if I even sleep in the first place. So far the ringing has kept me wide awake. It seems to be getting progressively louder, though that could just be an illusory perception on my part. Turning down my hearing aids helps, at least for a bit, but I’m trying to do so sparingly. I don’t want to miss a call from Andrew, or some other important sound.
As promised, I can view every archived document relating to 8416 through his desktop computer, all the way back to the 60’s. Many are of my own making, but it’ll still pay to refresh my memory. There’s also a bookshelf containing every scholarly publication I’ve ever authored, chronologically organized, neatly positioned, and in fresh condition. Encountering them so unexpectedly, the cumulative product of my lifelong career in memetic research, is as surreal as it is flattering, though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised given our longstanding rapport. I’ll be sure to incorporate them into my research as well, at least the earlier ones that primarily cover 8416.
Putting my thoughts down in this journal has helped me process the day’s events, but it’s time I stop procrastinating. I intend to dedicate all of my further time and energy to studying this matter. I won’t stop until I’ve discovered a solution. The answer must be hidden somewhere in the prior data, I just have to find it.
-
- _
There must be something, right? I’ve found myself muttering that phrase on a loop for the last several hours as I repeatedly comb through the research archives, as if this desperate mantra could somehow bring the truth of the statement into existence, but it’s no use. The deeper I dig, the clearer the futility of my efforts become. There are no documented cases of macroscopic temporal or spatial distortions relating to 8416. There’s plenty of information about its sub-planck warping properties, of course. We have a decent grasp of that thanks to the SRD. But that’s the thing, ordinary devices can’t detect 8416 because they are made of the very fabric of reality that it distorts. But something has changed, and now we can detect its influence. I can see the static night sky, held in place by the moon's pivotal beam for days on end. I can observe how anything that escapes its clutches is enveloped by total nothingness. I can hear its incessant goddamn ringing, foiling any attempt to sleep no matter how exhausted I get. The only definitive conclusion I can draw is that we no longer exist within standard macrospace. We’ve been marooned inside a planck-second, wedged into a crevice between units of existence. It brought us here, to its domain, the unseen, the unknown. We’re operating under its rules now, and I have no idea how to break free of them.
I haven’t seen Andrew in person since he directed me to stay here, but from what he’s said over his last few calls, things on his end are growing just as dire. He’s tried everything he can think of to understand the border phenomenon: drones (both land and air, RC and autonomous), analog measuring tools fastened to ropes to drag them back inside, all types of lab animals available in the research wing. The result is always the same; once they cross, they’re gone for good. He’s also tried positioning objects (all mentioned above) directly on the perimeter threshold, and the results, suffice to say, were about as disastrous as you could expect. Essentially, they’ve gained no information whatsoever about what lies outside the zone or the nature of this phenomenon. He even said that, at this point, he can’t be sure whether the surrounding desert and sky, as they appear from within, are actually present. So far, he’s been somewhat successful in maintaining a tone of confidence and conviction while giving these updates, but the cracks started to show during his most recent contact, an involuntary quiver of fear infiltrating his speech. He’s out of ideas, and I fear that I am too
Fueled by our mutual lack of success, an omnipresent atmosphere of looming hopelessness has descended upon me over the course of the past several hours, searing further into my thoughts with each fruitless file I read, and yet I can’t bring myself to stop. I feel like, if I lose this momentum, I’ll be left with nothing. Just me and that despicable moon, with its merciless goddamn ringing. Taxing as it is to endure, I refuse to let it consume me. I swear to whatever being could possibly hear me over this wretched howl, I won’t stop until I’ve vanquished its creator. I will break it before it breaks me. I will bring silence.
I wouldn’t even be writing this if that fucking fog hadn’t stalled my investigation. It hit the windows first, making it gradually harder to see what’s going on outside. Certainly unusual for the Australian outback, but it seemed trivial at the time compared to everything else going on. I began to grow concerned, however, when it started appearing on the bathroom mirror. I hadn’t used the shower or anything, I barely left the archives long enough for a necessary piss break. I rubbed my finger along its surface, but it didn’t wipe off like you’d expect. It couldn’t be on the other side, as the mirror is directly affixed to the wall, and of course it wouldn’t be visible from my side regardless. That left only one possibility: it must be forming inside the glass itself. It was then, perfectly timed as though to accentuate the gravity of this conclusion, that I noticed it forming on the computer.
Given the preceding pattern of the windows and mirror, it was clear that the screen would continue to increase in opacity until it was rendered essentially inoperable, a realization that, in that moment, nearly crushed my will entirely. I’d still be able to read through my printed publications, of course, but doing so has thus far been equally ineffective, and the amount of available data therein is exponentially limited in comparison to the entire digital database. I know this is irrational, probably the sleep deprivation talking, but it feels like an attack directed at me personally. As if the moon’s continued capacity to allude my understanding wasn’t satisfactory enough, it had to add insult to injury and thwart my primary means of even trying to learn about it. One last ‘fuck you!’ to cap off a day of uninterrupted failure. Of course, I’ve since learned that the phenomenon isn’t exclusive to me. According to Andrew’s last update, it’s affecting all glass on-site, disabling almost every security camera and computer terminal. Only a few devices have been spared; apparently, the latest Foundation-issued models are made with some kind of transparent plastic instead of glass, but -O has been slow to phase in the updated tech. He’s trying his best to allocate them for maintaining essential operations, but for the most part we’ve gone completely dark.
In perhaps my only stroke of good fortune today, it seems the mobile touchpad I use to log these journal entries is one of the new, unaffected models. I tried transferring as many files from the archive as I could onto it before the terminal’s screen was completely obfuscated, but I was informed that my ‘external device is not authorized to download’ anything but the fully unrestricted, Standard-Clearance precursory description files. However, there was an adjacent printer that was authorized, so in a final, desperate gambit, I decided to print as many documents as I could, first using up all the blank printer paper, then finding already-printed pages around Andrew’s office and reprinting over them. I didn’t have time to debate which files to prioritize, but I think I ended up with a relatively even mix of documents that I’d read and thought potentially useful and new documents that looked promising based on their titles alone. I’m writing this while the printer is catching up on the last few files I selected. The screen’s all white now, so this will be it, just me and this mess of papers.
SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT I’m such an idiot!!!! I was so frantic in trying to outpace the fog, I didn’t bother to connect or organize the pages after they emerged. I just knocked the whole goddamn pile off the table. They’re everywhere now, fucking everywhere, blanketing the entire fucking floor.
IDIOT IDIOT IDIOT IDIOT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
-
- _
I can’t do it. I just can’t do it. I’ve looked at the information from every conceivable angle, explored every possible connection. I’ve literally coated the entirety of Andrew’s apartment in paper, tied together by thumbtacks and dental floss like some worn out conspiracy cliche, and I’m still no closer to finding a solution. If anything, I’ve only become more confused, lost in a web of data that makes less sense with each assessment. I can’t sleep, can’t eat, can't even sit alone with my thoughts for a single fucking second without feeling like I’ll go mad from the moon’s accursed screeching. You’d think I would have learned to subconsciously tune it out by now, being just a single continuous sound, but no, of course not. It won’t let me. It refuses to be ignored, growing steadily louder by the hour, by the minute even, always one step ahead of my mind, constantly rising just above my minimum perceptual threshold into the realm of conscious awareness. I can adjust my hearing aids to make them quieter, and I have done so several times at this point, but it brings only a moment of reprieve, as the sound once again begins its ceaseless trek up the decibel scale. My brain, in an ultimate act of betrayal, is perfectly willing and able to adjust to accommodate the lower volume, rapidly resensitizing until I return to a dreadful equilibrium with that torturous scream. Anguish, vitriol, existential dread, it’s all compressed into that ceaseless and all-consuming howl, scraping away at my psyche with each passing moment like a sharp yet rusty knife.
Until now, my determination to pursue the nature of the wailing moon and uncover its weaknesses was my mind’s only refuge. The illusion of agency, of hope, like an island in a storm, but it’s gone now. I’ve turned to writing this journal entry, sprawled on Andrew’s bed amid an entanglement of interlacing floss, in a desperate attempt to stay afloat. The medium of written word is the only outlet through which I can still think at all; rereading my previous statements allows me to combat the constant interruption of my train of thought, at least for now. So here I will remain, inside this hallowed plastic screen, until… well, that I don’t know.
I no longer believe that Andrew or someone else out there will find a way to resolve this, either. From the messages he’s sent, along with the continual sounds of distress and interpersonal conflict emanating from beyond the marbled windows, I’ve gathered that things have essentially gone to shit all over the site. I stopped receiving calls from Andrew nearly a day ago —I presume his comm unit was composed of glass— but I know he’s still (relatively) okay, or at least he was fairly recently. He’s been sending updates through his printer. Whenever the green light turns on and a dinging sound is made, the only stimuli left that can incentivize me to leave this bed, I feed it a few pages of the documents hanging from the walls, and I receive a partially-obfuscated but still somewhat legible message. At first I was highly selective about which papers to sacrifice for this process, back when I still thought I could fix this, but that ship has sailed, so now I just pick ones with a decent amount of blank space remaining. Deciphering the messages requires a bit of scrutiny due to the frequent obstruction of words and sentences, but I think I at least get the gist of what’s been happening across the rest of the site, and it’s nothing good. Moot as it may be, I’ll try my best to summarize here; perhaps compiling the chaos into a comprehensive synopsis will help to validate my newfound nihilism and provide some sort of twisted catharsis.
Andrew’s efforts to experiment with the zone perimeter have pretty much ceased entirely, as he has become increasingly occupied by “exit” attempts from various personnel. It seems many of those without the luxury of decrepit cochleas have been affected by the moon’s abhorrent keening even more acutely than I have. As of now, somewhere between 20-29% of the site’s occupants (can’t make out the second digit) have either successfully left the zone, or have become “compromised” (unclear what exactly he means by that) to the point of necessitating medical commitment. So far, the primary approach for handling such cases has been forcible sedation, but the medical wing is close to running out of the requisite drugs. He suspects that some of the associated staff have been stealing them for their own benefit, but he can’t afford to focus on that. He’s stretched way too thin as it is.
Even among the personnel who have thus far kept their sanity, it’s becoming progressively harder to maintain order. There is talk of trying to use certain anomalies held onsite (didn’t go into specifics) to combat whatever’s happening, but Andrew is drawing a hard line against any such attempts, which I think is a wise choice. Still, with people growing increasingly desperate, he fears it’s only a matter of time before they stop accepting his authority altogether. People have also been asking about me; where I am, if I’m still alive, etc. He’s thus far managed to avoid answering these questions, but they are only getting more persistent with each dismissive response he gives. The subtext of their queries is pretty clear: since I’m somehow the cause of all of this, and I can’t physically exit the zone, that leaves only one remaining way to get rid of me and potentially free them from this purgatory. It’s a somewhat logical conclusion, one that I’ve considered myself a time or two, but have not yet mustered the courage to enact. It’s one thing to walk through an invisible boundary and vanish into thin air, my ultimate fate unknown, but to accept a traditional death, with all the fear and pain and unquestionable finality it brings, ignites millions of years of instinctual opposition within me. Maybe that makes me selfish, but I am only human.
As of now, that’s the extent of the information I can glean from Andrew’s messages. He hasn’t sent any more in a while, but I’ve preemptively loaded the printer for when he (hopefully) does. The closing statement of his last communication “STAY PUT” was brief yet telling. Even amidst the growing turmoil, he still isn’t willing to sacrifice my safety. I don’t know if that’s admirable or idiotic. I guess probably both. The same dichotomy permeates much of what he’s disclosed to me. Given his most recent endeavors, it seems he still believes we can find a way to stop this nightmare. While my impulse is to view this notion as utterly naive, I can’t help but acknowledge a certain level of respect for it as well. Ultimately, I recognize it as a reflection of the very same traits that originally convinced me of his aptitude for leadership; discipline, tenacity, courage, everything needed to weather the storms that so frequently brew in our line of work. If only the storm we’re facing here could be weathered, what I now see as pointless conviction could have been our salvation. He would have made a great EDICT, better than I was, if he’d only had the chance. I know this with certainty, but due to this sadistic twist of fate, no one else ever will. I hope at least he does.
-
- _
What have I done?
What have I done?
what have I done?
what have I done?How could I have been so careless? So selfish? Andrew was my friend, he trusted me. He did everything he could to protect me, and yet, when the time came to return the favor, I didn’t answer the call. I didn’t even fucking hear it.
Today was the tipping point. Part of me knew it was coming, we’ve been teetering on the edge of total anarchy for some time now, but I must shamefully admit that the final straw that broke the camel’s back caught me completely off guard. The fog on the glass wasn’t fog, that much was clear, but my foolish egocentrism blinded me to its true nature until it was too late. In the throes of emotional turmoil and sleep deprivation, I came to think of it as an individualized punishment borne of active malice, as if the moon was actually concerned enough about my efforts to escape its grasp to warrant intentionally stymying my research. Of course it wasn’t; it knew the endeavor was futile. If anything, the fog’s formation was an act of mercy, a display of lunar solidarity, intended to convey the true inevitability of the fate we now face alongside it, the curse of utter irrelevance that binds us together in this asomatous purgatory, made manifest through that pervasive, torturous howl. It’s all the howl, it was always the howl. If only I had heeded its premonitions, truly examined the message that its vociferous voice was figuratively transcribing across my screen. I would have seen the microfractures. I would have known what was coming.
It was only through arbitrary, undeserved luck that I was left relatively unscathed by the event. If I had been sitting at Andrew’s desk at the time, or just happened to be taking a shit, I probably wouldn’t be writing this now. Instead, I was on his bed, far from the windows, staring blankly at an array of meaningless documents, my consciousness rendered nearly inert by days of sleeplessness and screaming, when my stasis was punctured by the jarringly sharp sound of a single, resounding crack. Even without my hearing aids, which by then I had fully deactivated, it was still the most startling noise I have ever perceived, and the first in several days to closely contend with the scream itself, if only for an instant. As I soon realized, it was the sound of all glass across the site, every pane, screen, and lens, shattering at once. Even now, it still echoes through the cavernous recesses of my psyche. It was indescribable.
The threat it posed was not limited to the initial shatter itself. The resulting shards were so fine that they floated through the air like clouds of dust. Soon my eyes began to water, and my throat began to itch. Before even fully comprehending the situation, I had pulled the bed sheet over my nose and mouth, and was frantically trying to fan the clouds away with a pillow, though to little success. I tried to direct them outside through what were formerly the windows, but with each moment of sight came an unbearable stinging across my retinas, forcing me to primarily operate through what little spatial memory my fatigued brain could muster. The encompassing network of taut, interlacing floss didn’t help either, causing me to stumble and collapse several times. In hindsight, that was a laughably stupid idea, another truth to which my exhaustion had previously blinded me
Though my body was largely spared, my mind was equivalently shredded upon reaching the window, as I beheld the exponential catastrophe unfolding across the site. Though I couldn’t (and wouldn’t) get a good look, my ears illustrated the scene in sickening detail, as the moon’s infernal shriek seemed to somehow accentuate the sounds of staff less fortunate than I. Strange as it may be, I had grown accustomed to the sporadic bouts of yelling and crying that had become commonplace over the last few days, as people’s nerves were steadily corroded by the ceaseless howl. It was understandable, comforting even, and in the face of what I now heard, it was sorely missed. It would have been a relief to know their vocal cords were still intact enough to function. Instead, I was met with a cacophony of hoarse, gasping breaths. Their coughs and chokes congealed into a collective roar, the discordant chorus interspersed with occasional splashing sounds that I still dare not link to any visual conception. Their anguished rasps rose in tandem, harmonizing with the moon to create an immeasurable and all-consuming symphony of suffering. If we were in purgatory before, then this must be Hell.
By the time I had sufficiently cleared the residence of glasseous particulates such that I could keep my eyes open (at least somewhat), it was all I could manage to plop myself into Andrew’s bed. I really am an old man, past my prime, that’s been made irrefutably clear. Every muscle and joint in my body burned from the exertion. I remained winded for an unexpectedly long time, struggling to compensate for the oxygen deficit accrued from such relatively mild physical labor (granted, inhaling through the filter of a bedsheet certainly didn’t help). My fatigue was exacerbated by the stinging blotches of red, irritated skin that coated my forearms, no doubt embedded with thousands of infinitesimal shards that I probably still haven’t fully removed. And yet, these physical discomforts felt distant to me. Having already resigned myself to this torturous existence, this unending scream, I felt that the last remaining remnants of my will to act at all had been expended in the final burst of motion catalyzed by the shatter, by the prospect of compounding my suffering with the breath of a million smothering razors. Such concerns now seemed trivial, and I decided at that moment that I would passively accept whatever additional agony was thrust upon me next. I would let it consume me, and doing so would be moot, as I had already been consumed.
This cynical conviction, however, turned out not to be absolute. There was a single remaining circumstance that would break me from my vow of dormancy. One that, in my state of bottomless self-pity, I had not anticipated. Maybe if I had held a different mental state, if the strength to persevere had come to me sooner, the following events would have transpired differently. I’ll never know, but I’ll always wonder. It’s a weight I’ll carry to the grave, if not further, and it’s a weight I undoubtedly deserve.
The encroaching mob became known to me through vibrations long before my enfeebled ears could detect it. Doors slamming, footsteps pounding, improvised melee weaponry banging. I felt them working their way through the building like a localized storm, reverberating through the layers of floor and mattress and into my flesh and bones, and yet I didn’t react. I remember thinking to myself, to the extent that I was able or willing to think at all, that if this was the fate to befall me, then so be it. It wasn’t just about me, though. Of course it wasn’t. I was selfish, I was stupid, and yet, in a work of cruel, cosmic irony, I am still here.
I couldn’t discern the leading twin echoes of Andrew’s hurried footsteps, as they were fully absorbed into the rumbling of the stampede which followed closely behind. It wasn’t until the acoustic amalgam neared the front door, and I saw the locking mechanism deactivate, indicating a successful keycode input, that the notion of his presence even crossed my mind. The thought sprung me to my feet with a vigor I had deemed unattainable only moments before, but it was too late. Andrew entered successfully, a few seconds ahead of the ensuing riot. He would have had time to close the door behind him, surely buying us at least enough time to devise a plan of escape, if it weren’t for the knee-high length of dental floss that happened to pass in front of the entryway. Of all the eventualities he may have considered, succumbing to what was essentially a makeshift booby trap within his own home certainly wasn’t one of them. He went down hard and flat, his nose buckling against the floor in an unnatural manner that made my entire body instinctively recoil. The mob was instantly upon him, though they too were largely hindered by the array of minty tripwires, resulting in an amorphous heap of flailing heads and limbs. In those initial, crucial moments of confusion, Andrew lifted his head to look at me, eyes unfocused, blood streaming down his face. He barked a single, strained syllable, only barely breaking through the moon’s lamentous howl, before being engulfed by the writhing horde:
PRINT
It’s hard for me to recall my exact train of thought following this event. My memories are chronicled through the lens of actions, as my body’s intuition seemed to take the helm. I don’t know if I truly understood what Andrew was trying to tell me, or if I simply tried to flee before the enraged crowd regained their bearings. Regardless, I ended up barricading myself in his office, where I found what I presume was the subject of his allusion. At some point, the printer had transposed a single additional page, yielding a final message. Though cryptically worded, it was clearly discernible among the layers of prior text by virtue of both its font size and brevity:
RN ENCY
VOL 6-7
KEYCARD
< - - - -As my weary, deteriorated brain struggled to make sense of the note, my eyes impulsively followed the arrow’s trajectory, landing on the bookshelf. I’d removed many of the more relevant publications during my useless research venture, but some remained untouched. Their proud exhibition of my name embellished in gold across each spine now felt almost mocking, juxtaposed with the undeniable impotence of my expertise over the preceding days. Nearest to the arrow, my gaze fell upon the latter installments of what I’d once considered my crowning achievement: The Encyclopedia of Referential Negation: a Comprehensive Collection of Terms, Research, & Documented Instances. Volumes VI and VII stood erect, the narrow crevice between them slightly wider than the rest, and I noticed for the first time a parallel groove running along the supporting shelf, the deepest layer of which glinted with a distinctly metallic sheen. At that moment, every disjointed fragment of information somehow coalesced within my hypnagogic mind, and the entirety of Andrew’s communication attained clarity.
At once I became deeply engaged with fulfilling his instructions, and any awareness of the frenzied pack of personnel repeatedly ramming the door was excised from the realm of conscious thought. I withdrew Andrew’s Level-4 Clearance keycard from the pants pocket where it had been stored for almost 4 straight days at that point, and swiped it through the dubious fissure. Nothing happened at first, long enough to trigger a brief spark of gaslight within me, before it was extinguished by a mechanical rumbling beneath my feet.
My already precarious balance was nearly lost as a square segment of the floor retracted into the adjacent wall, revealing the entrance to a vertical concrete shaft, with a procession of protruding metal rungs descending an unknown distance into its shadowy depths. This development caused my threadbare burst of focus to briefly falter, and I was momentarily paralyzed as I gazed into the newly exposed abyss. The classic hidden door cliche had briefly crossed my mind as I swiped the card, but I hadn’t truly considered it as a possibility. It’s presence invoked as many questions as it answered, but I could scarcely afford to ponder them, as the crack of splintering wood and severing door hinges swiftly reminded me.
choosing speed over grace, I half-climbed, half-plummeted down the tunnel, which was fortunately not as deep as its unilluminated obscurity had initially suggested. At the bottom, a big, red button jutted from the wall, the unambiguous word “CLOSE” glowing softly upon its face. I pressed it without a second thought, and was promptly engulfed in darkness.
It seemed my concealment was not a moment too soon, as reverberating footsteps and voices soon flooded the space above me. I don’t know if they saw the final sliver of my escape route as the hatch slid shut, but regardless, they had no success in penetrating the secluded space. Nevertheless, I was initially frozen in shock, not daring to move or even breathe. It wasn’t until their ambiguous banging and unintelligible yet clearly aggressive speech began to dwindle, sinking beneath the unremitting tide of lunar melancholy, that I felt secure enough to survey my surroundings.
The cold, concrete room that has become my sanctuary for the time being, is a rather minimalist abode. Its area definitely doesn’t exceed 3 square meters, and the ceiling is slightly lower than my height. Only a sleeping bag and pillow are available for the purposes of tactile comfort, accompanied by a pile of canned food, a few water jugs, and a bucket. There are no light fixtures installed as far as I can tell, only a nonfunctional, lensless flashlight, so I am illuminated solely by the screen of this touchpad. I’m sure that this room would not be considered up-to-code as an official site-standard bunker. With no apparent fallout shielding or long-term amenities, it’s clear that this was devised as more of an under-the-table project. Useful for brief and basic emergencies, with the benefit of Andrew’s sole personal access.
I had no prior knowledge of this construction, and I couldn’t help but ponder the numerous unknowns surrounding its existence. Why did Andrew decide to make this? Had it been a preemptive response to an identifiable threat, or simply a generalized cautionary measure? When was it built? How long has it been here? The combined weight of these questions conjured a brief twist of unease in my gut, which was immediately chased by a bitter wave of guilt for having the audacity to think in such a way. After all, I owe my life, or at least what little of it remains, to the presence of this protective measure. The confidentiality afforded by its unofficial inception turned out to be its saving grace. Its rudimentary, one-man capacity proved adequately effective, only in the end it wasn’t the right man.
This room was obviously only intended for Andrew’s use, and yet, when it really mattered, he was willing to entrust me with the knowledge necessary to access it. In turn, I’m now solely reaping the benefits of his foresight, while he’s up there going through who knows what. As I lie here, alone in the dark, accompanied by nothing but the cries of the mournful moon and my own inexorable guilt, the ruminations that ceaselessly haunt me revolve around a single factor: how long had that message been printed? Did he send it as soon as he saw the encroaching mob? As soon as the glass shattered? Or was it even earlier? Speculative as it may be, I can’t help but imagine he’d planned for me to fulfill the instructions preemptively, so that the trap door was already open when he arrived. He was counting on me, trusting me, and that’s what led to his demise. He didn’t know how weak I was, how weak I still am. He didn’t know that the scream had worn me down, breaking my will to act long before his. He didn’t know that I had fully disabled my hearing aids, forsaking any hope of hearing the subtle ding of the printer, or any other form of communication, in favor of easing my own suffering. Even now, encapsulated in earth and concrete, smothered by the ramifications of my [SELFISHNESS], I still can’t bring myself to reactivate them.
You know, when I first joined the Foundation, I swore an oath to protect humanity. Not just humans, but humanity itself. That’s all I ever really wanted, to protect our species, not just in body but in spirit, to shield them from the horrors that our apathetic universe so frequently thrust upon us, to preserve their collective innocence even at the cost of my own. I’ve spent the last half-century working to fulfill that oath, in my own special way, and before all of this, I thought I had. I thought that made me a good person, and evidently, so did Andrew. I guess we both know better now.
-
- _
Something has shifted. I can’t describe it, there’s no explicit change to put words to, but I can sense it intuitively. At some unknown point during my sleepless, timeless entombment within that secret sepulcher, a threshold was breached. The moon’s cries, though continuous and unchanging, have acquired an asomatous edge of impending finality. Their sorrow has permeated beyond my conscious mind; I feel it in my bones, in my teeth, reverberating through the hollow vestiges of my very being. I am no longer myself. I am nothing more than a vector, channeling the profound and penultimate melancholy of the long-neglected moon. Their pain is my pain. Their pain is me. I am pain. I am only pain.
Under the reflexive guidance of this cosmic affliction, I was wordlessly prompted to ascend from my pit of fermented repentance, birthed from that woeful womb as a new and alien entity. I numbly gazed across the office, in heavy disarray, but entirely devoid of people, living or dead. The same conditions had befallen the rest of Andrew’s quarters; collapsed and broken furniture, adorned with crumpled documents and tinseled with interlacing dental floss. Occasional bloodstains dotted the wreckage, the only biological remnants of the preceding altercation which now felt an eternity away. The largest crimson sigil marked the location of Andrew’s initial toppling, a cardinal reminder of his both literal and figurative downfall. The residence seemed to exude an innate judgment upon me, a monument to my failure as a scientist, EDICT, and friend. On some level, I was cognizant of these crushing criticisms, but the emotional burden they invoked was of little significance, as the waves of guilt were merely funneled into the already bottomless pit of despair within me. I left and didn’t look back.
Under the night’s watchful eye, I aimlessly wandered among the ruins of PrimeSite-O, further absorbing the grief of seeing the fruits of my career in shambles. The hazardous haze of microscopic daggers that had incited the violence of the previous day, having long since diffused across the atmosphere of the zone, was now only alluded to by the total absence of any glass on the premises. Additionally, the site was densely interspersed with far more conspicuous evidence of its prior descent into anarchy. Conventional damage, presumably man-made in origin, was the most prevalent, but some scenes of destruction implied undoubtedly anomalous involvement, particularly near the Euclid and Keter containment facilities. Despite these ominous indicators, my surroundings remained still and devoid of activity. Once again, I encountered no people or deceased remains thereof, and I was eventually faced with the uncomfortable realization that I was the only one left.
I get it now, the moon’s message, the reason I was trapped here while everyone else could leave. They’ve taken everything from me: My friends, my career, my research acumen, my moral integrity, my self-worth. The collective achievements of my lifetime, gradually excised by that rending howl. It wasn’t until I was fully stripped bare that I could truly understand the depths of their anguish. They suffered in solitude for so long, but now I share the weight of their burden. They’ve molded a companion out of me, their oldest friend, the first to notice the imperceptible cries they futilely beamed upon the Earth. I now have nothing left to give but the vacant husk of my physical form, and only now will they take that too.
That leaves me here, in the front seat of my windowless car, staring through the dilapidated fence and into the empty expanse beyond. I know I’ll pass through it this time, but not what awaits me on the other side. Maybe I’ll enter the moon’s solacing embrace, or maybe I’ll meet total oblivion. In the end, the outcome is irrelevant; I can’t avoid it, nor do I want to. I’ve stalled long enough by writing this, though I can’t say why. Closure, perhaps. A farewell to my loyal confidant within this screen, before I proceed to the one in the sky. I’m ready now. It’s time for me to go.
-
- _
Wow, I didn’t expect to ever write in this again. I really thought yesterday’s entry would be my last. Yet here I am, alive and unscathed, feeling better than ever, in fact. It’s amazing what a difference a nice long nap can make. Now that I’m (reasonably) rested and alert, all recollections of my thoughts and emotions over the preceding days appear fuzzy and nonsensical, as if the whole experience was nothing more than a long, nightmarish dream. If it weren’t for my journal chronicling the ordeal in extensive and vivid detail, I might have even assumed that’s all it was.
It’s hard to believe that less than 24 hours ago, I was speeding toward the site’s perimeter, fully prepared for death, or possibly something even worse. The threshold embodied a truly absolute unknown. Clearly anomalous, the possibilities were infinite. Every conceivable outcome, as well as all inconceivable ones, were equally likely. I didn’t care at the time, of course, broken as my psyche was. I was accepting of any eventuality, or at least I thought I was. As it turned out, there was one potential result that could still catch me off-guard. Given my recent pervasive record of ignorance regarding these phenomena, it’s only fitting that it turned out to be accurate: Nothing happened to me at all.
Upon fully crossing the border, I found myself to still be physically present, in the Australian outback, upon the same road I was using moments before. There were no unusual sensations like there were when I initially entered. No double-vision, no vertigo, no internal registry of the transition whatsoever. The event, or lack thereof, left me momentarily frozen in a state of thorough confusion. As such, it took me a moment to notice the few changes that had in fact occurred.
Primesite-O was gone. As soon as I passed through the gates, the entire campus instantly and unceremoniously vanished. Instead, there was only the road, the same one I was traveling on, extending opposite to my trajectory for an unclear distance. Preternatural as this alteration was, it was promptly overshadowed by the only other noticeable change: The howl had stopped.
Its cessation was abrupt, as though a switch was flipped precisely at the moment I crossed the border. Despite this, my ears initially struggled to comprehend its absence. I reactivated my hearing aids, cranked them as high as they could go, and still there was nothing, nothing at all. Until then, I had never truly understood how silence could be deafening, but the seemingly nonsensical turn of phrase perfectly captures my subsequent experience. The relief, the sheer euphoria induced by the auditory vacuum, was overwhelming. Its influence felt almost chemical in nature, and despite the smooth and unwavering trail before me, I felt the need to pull over while I acclimated to its intoxicating effects.
I don’t know how long I stayed there, basking in the blissful calm of my empty, silent surroundings. Time felt ethereal to me in that state. Through the aperture that had once held my windshield, I watched the glowing, indigo tinge of dawn slowly creep across the sky, as the sun which had been halted for so long was finally granted passage across the horizon. The moon, content at last, began shifting to accommodate their fiery twin. There was something else, though, something more to the moon’s amended demeanor than their conclusion of screaming and resumption of motion. Subtle as it was, I’m surprised it took me so long to recognize it, given my lifelong career predicated on lunar research. The topographic arrangement of the dark side of the moon, now turned to face the Earth. Though familiar to me, their newfound illumination granted an additional air of elegance to their craterous contours. The expression was unmistakable; they were smiling. The elation exuded by that dazzling grin was palpable, as their magnificent face was finally revealed for all the world to see. Despite everything, I couldn’t help but feel happy for them, overjoyed in fact. Their contentment became infused with my own, and its combined potency unwittingly carried me into a deep, cathartic slumber.
It was around mid-afternoon when I finally awoke, disoriented by the feeling of sleeping for both far too long and not long enough. My face was comically sunburned, and my car baked to the point that its metal components were untouchably hot. Without windows to insulate the AC, I was left with velocity as the only available means to cool myself and my vehicle. I sped down the single, continuous road for a while, unconcerned with traffic laws, until I finally came upon the promise of shade in the form of a gas station and adjacent convenience store.
I’ve decided that this is as good a place as any to stay and wait for backup. I sent a distress signal to the nearest Auxiliary Site up in Kimberly, so they should be dispatching an escort team to pick me up soon, along with a tow truck for the car (It’s still technically functional, but I learned on the drive here that windshields got their name for a damn good reason).
I tried my best to give a comprehensive rundown of the calamity that’s befallen PrimeSite-O, but it was understandably difficult through a short-form transmission. If nothing else, they should at least know by now that the site is compromised, since all remote communication was lost a day or so ago from their temporal perspective. There are probably recon units heading there already, not that they’ll find anything. I’ll no doubt be subjected to a lengthy interview process over the coming weeks as this incident is investigated. It’ll be a headache, and certainly not the note I wanted to end my career on, but I suppose I should just be grateful I got back safely at all. Hell, maybe the others did too, and the interviews have already begun. I sure hope that’s the case, but that would be ideal, and in my experience the ideal scenario is usually too good to be true. I guess I’ll find out soon enough.
-
- _
I fucked up. I really, really fucked up. My actions were foolishly naive, that much is obvious now, but there’s no going back. I’ve mulled it over for hours now, but I still don’t see any way out of this. Not even the Foundation can save me now, it seems. As much as I want to deny it, I need to face the facts. My fate is sealed.
I waited at that goddamn gas station for hours, but no one came. I tried every official avenue of contact permitted by my clearance level; all the prime and auxiliary site comms, the direct lines of every department I knew, portable MTF receivers, and still no answer. I don’t think they even went through, as I just kept getting no-dial tones. I even tried Andrew’s comm unit, though that unsurprisingly yielded the same result. It’s probably still at the site, wherever that is.
Finally, as a last resort, I tried Andrew’s personal phone number. He gave it to me some years ago, during a conference we were running. Strictly against protocol, of course, but it made co-coordinating the event much easier, and I haven’t used it since. From what I’ve been told, he almost never even has it on his person these days, instead keeping it at his rarely-occupied private residence. I knew calling it was a long shot if there ever was one, but to my surprise and relief, he actually picked up.
Just hearing his voice immediately made me more relaxed, partly because I was finally in touch with the Foundation in some capacity, but mostly just due to the assurance that he was still alive. I told him as much, but he didn’t return the sentiment. He was unusually deadpan throughout the call, and didn’t seem receptive to any kind of discussion beyond curtly asking where I was and telling me he was on his way. He concluded the interaction by telling me to stay put, repeating it several times in a tone that seemed oddly forceful and deliberate, then hung up as soon as I agreed.
In hindsight, it was obvious that something was amiss, but I refused to allow myself to acknowledge it. Not wanting to spoil my newfound comfort, I dismissed his strange demeanor as an understandable symptom of his recent traumatic experiences, or perhaps a concerted effort to maintain discretion while using a civilian line, any excuse that would allow me to stifle the budding concern that was clearly warranted. I know it was stupid, incredibly so, but I had been parked at that gas station for almost an entire day at that point, and my patience had reached its limit. I wanted a bed, I wanted a shower, I wanted to settle this whole fiasco and move on with my life. It was just another in a long list of cases where self-interest has clouded my judgment. It seems I won’t be able to weasel or bunker my way out of this one, though. The consequences have finally come home to roost. At least this time, I’ll be the only one to suffer them.
Andrew arrived within the hour, in a car I didn’t recognize, accompanied by a young woman I had never met. Though I was glad to see him in the flesh, seemingly unscathed save for a bandaged nose, I could no longer ignore the intuitive feeling that something wasn’t right. As they exited the vehicle, I noticed his outfit, while professional, lacked his PrimeSite-O Director’s badge or any Foundation insignias, granting him the appearance of an ordinary, albeit well-dressed, civilian. This would make sense in the context of covert operations, and although such endeavors were far outside of Andrew’s qualifications, it was nevertheless forgivable if not somewhat odd. However, the woman’s attire was a stark departure from any Foundation standards: a purple T-shirt, denim jeans, and sneakers. The car they arrived in was similarly informal, with several haphazardly applied decals of unfamiliar yet clearly unofficial origin. As strange as these observations were, my confusion was soon compounded tenfold as I saw a police cruiser pull into the lot, parking alongside them. Two officers emerged, and the four of them conversed with each other for a bit, before Andrew and his unknown companion began to approach.
I stood motionless, struggling to process the events unfolding before me. I hoped that Andrew would provide some clarity, but he instead adopted a bystanding position, watching silently as the mystery girl proceeded. Before I had time to react, she hugged me, squeezing my torso and awkwardly immobilizing my arms with a seemingly authentic sincerity. Her following words, the first I’d ever heard from her, served as a final blow of bewilderment, plunging me into a state of disorientation bordering on physical vertigo. “Dad! Where have you been? I was so worried!”
She kept talking, but her words were eclipsed by my reeling thoughts. I never had children, never even came close. Looking past her, I centered my sight on Andrew, ejecting a disorganized jumble of questions as my mouth and mind frantically grasped for an iota of understanding. What was going on? Did he report what happened to the higher-ups? What happened back at the site? Where are all the other staff? I searched his face for any sign of understanding, but there was none. He just stared blankly as he repeated my words, his genuine confusion evident in his tone, until Mystery Girl broke my fruitless inquisition.
She spoke softly to Andrew, as though I wouldn’t be able to hear, saying that I must think I’m still working with him at U-W-A, giving no elaboration as to what that even is, before returning her attention to me, her face and voice donning a patronizing pretense of simplistic cordiality that only bolstered my burgeoning annoyance. “Dad, you’re retired now, remember? Andrew was nice enough to cancel his lecture today to come get you with me. We’re going home now, okay?”. She held my arm, attempting to lead me back to their car, but I recoiled. I was sick of her interference. I wanted to talk to Andrew, the only person who could possibly explain what the hell was going on. Admittedly, his continued reticence frustrated me to a point of unprofessional and unwise enragement. I pointed out the bandages on his face, shouted about the angry mob that tackled him to the ground right in front of me just a few days ago. This got the attention of the cops, but Andrew merely brushed away my outburst, telling them it was from a bicycling accident. A fucking bicycling accident. I was incredulous.
Though their faces remained placid, I could tell that my escalating hostility had put them all on edge. They began to tighten their perimeter around me, the police strategically encircling in both directions, until I was cornered against the side of the convenience store. I came to the bitter realization that, despite the storm of emotions within me, I was faced with no real choice but to capitulate to their desires, whatever they may be. In a final, desperate Hail-Mary, I recalled a trick used by various agents under my employ over the years. Though I’d never had to use it myself, it was essentially common knowledge in the Foundation, something that Andrew, the almost-EDICT, would surely be familiar with. Despite his thoroughly convincing display of ignorance throughout the ordeal, I still held a sliver of hope that it was only a veneer he had assumed, for reasons that I simply wasn’t privy to at the moment. That slight yet steadying prospect was finally obliterated when I asked the question to which he, of all people, should definitely know the answer, and was met with only a resounding silence.
The next thing I knew, they had ushered me into the backseat of their civilian vehicle, their counterfeit smiles poorly concealing the compulsory nature of my transport. A tow truck came to collect my rental car, taking it somewhere for repairs. Mystery Girl not only claimed it was her own, but insisted that I wasn’t allowed to be driving at all, admonishing me for its broken windows as if I were a child. Any objections I made to the contrary were outright ignored; the police didn’t say a single word to me directly throughout the whole affair. Stifled by such a brazen disregard for my thoughts and feelings, my furious indignation was eventually extinguished, giving way to a hopeless despondency.
I now lay in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar room, in an unfamiliar house, and yet I’m surrounded by reflections and impressions of myself. Framed pictures of me, Mystery Girl, and other strangers, hugging and smiling in places I’ve never been, doing things I’ve never done. A PhD with my name on it, from the University of Western Australia, hangs framed on the wall; It’s in literature of all things. A series of books sit upon a shelf, my name embossed along their spines, but they aren’t the same books I found in Andrew’s office. They’re fiction novels, mostly sci-fi/fantasy it seems, and, if I may go so far as to judge a book by its cover, pretty mediocre. I’ve been told the prose in my journal entries tend to lean toward the artistic, if not a bit pretentious. Perhaps there’s some credence to those claims after all. The more I observe my surroundings, telling the story of a life that, logically, I know is not my own, the more strongly I feel, on some innate, primal level, that it could be. These vestiges, echoing stagnant potentials within me, are somehow increasingly contending with my authentic memories. I partially fear, and partially hope, that I will soon lose sight of their distinction.Andrew is long gone at this point, taking any hope of answers with him. He drove away almost immediately after dropping us off at this unassuming, utterly ordinary suburban dwelling that is ostensibly my home, as well as Mystery Girl’s. I thought he’d exit the car as well, that he’d accompany us into the house, at least long enough that I could take him aside and pick his brain for more clues. By the time I realized my mistake, he was already shifting into gear. He gave me nothing more than a “take care” and a look of candid sympathy before driving off to who knows where, leaving me stuck at this random residence, in the hands of this complete stranger who doesn’t even seem to realize she’s a stranger, and, as I soon found out, the aforementioned cops as well.
The three of them guided me to “my” bedroom, telling me to get some rest while they had a “private discussion”. I tried to eavesdrop twice, but on both occasions I was quickly discovered and once again directed back to the bedroom. During my first foray, I managed to hear Mystery Girl saying something along the lines of “he’s had episodes before but never this bad”. Her tone portrayed extreme distress. On my second and far briefer venture, I caught one of the cops mentioning “long-term care options” and holding several pamphlets. Mystery girl looked to be on the verge of tears. Upon my latter apprehension, it was clear that their patience had grown thin. One of the cops is standing outside the bedroom door now, so any further attempts at reconnaissance would surely be foiled. Disheartening as it is to accept, I have come to the conclusion that I am, in essence, a prisoner here. The sense of powerlessness invoked by this fact is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. Even the worst points of my debacle at PrimeSite-O feel somehow tame in comparison to this moment. The sheer depths of futility I now face, forsaken by the very world that I dedicated my life to trying to protect, is all-consuming.
As I lie here, agency abolished, I watch through the window as the moon’s luminous face breaches the skyline, and they, my sole witness, watch me in turn. Their newly-imparted smile, gentle yet potent in its sentiment, is the only tangible indicator of the reality of my former existence, and it occurs to me that I have relieved them of their burden by adopting it as my own. I now occupy the same role in this world that they had for so long: present but unseen. screaming but unheard, unimaginably alone. Is this a form of poetic retribution? I don’t think so; I feel no animosity towards or from my cosmic companion. Rather, I feel a kinship, an immutable bond through the symmetry of our circumstances. I alone was there for them, heard them, and now they alone hear me. Their expression is one of immeasurable gratitude, for they recognize the ultimate sacrifice I’ve made to provide them with the priceless gift of significance.
Perhaps it was out of this appreciation that the contents of my touchpad were preserved with relative integrity amid this universal transition. The Standard-Clearance introductory file for SCP-8416 appears largely unchanged, as are my most recent journal entries, though they are all now saved in an unencrypted folder titled “Story WIP”. Not only that, but with the Foundation-issue firewalls now absent, I can connect to the civilian internet. I think this is the moon’s way of reimbursing my lost identity, at least as much as they possibly can. I can post these chronicles for the world to see, sharing my story, my real story, with the inhabitants of this new reality, with the caveat that they will never accept them as true. No one will ever believe these events, my life, my very self to be real.
Still, perhaps I don’t have to be real to be remembered. Perhaps my story, even if only a story, can still hold a place in people’s hearts and minds, and isn’t that what really matters? In the end, isn’t that all our reality is?
They’re coming up the stairs now. Whatever happens next, I won’t resist. My story is complete, and all I ask of anyone reading this is to please, please remember it.
Please remember me.
