SCP-9231

What is our place in a blue world?

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Item #: SCP-9231

Object Class: Neutralized

Special Containment Procedures: Containment of SCP-9231 is unnecessary, as there have been no formal reports of SCP-9231 being utilized among anomalous communities, and all efforts to replicate SCP-9231's effect by Foundation researchers have been unsuccessful. All gathered SCP-9231 instances have been rendered inert.

Sestina%20system%20alt.png

Containment Schematics for SCP-9231.

Description: SCP-9231 was the designation given to now defunct phenomena wherein memetically-augmented sestinas1 were anomalously imbued with the essence of a particular concept. The imbued concept, designated as SCP-9231-A, would always appear as one of the repeating words within the sestina. When was interpreted in either written or spoken form, the essence of the instance's SCP-9231-A would reflect upon the interpreter, causing them to manifest properties associated with the concept for a period of time.2 The resulting anomalous impact depended heavily on the interpreter's personal understanding of the concept, with particularly complex concepts generally resulting in significantly different results from interpreter to interpreter.

Addendum: SCP-9231-Omega Series

Following the conclusion of Różewicz v The Global Occult Coalition3 in the Esterberg Supreme Summer Court, the Foundation was able to obtain a number of documents related to anartistic works seized by GOC officers. Among this documentation is a series of SCP-9231 instances, hereafter referred to as the SCP-9231-Omega series, written as correspondences between two unidentified reality benders during the first years of the Ichabod Campaign. This series of SCP-9231 instances was reportedly discovered on the persons of a reality bender whose remains could not be identified due to excessive charring. The full series has been transcribed in full below, with their associated SCP-9231-A concepts denoted in bold:

«SCP-9231-Omega-1 Analysis Copy»

End words: "dream", "last", "safety", "Mariposa", "shed", "cerulean";

I wonder if there is still a place in the world for those who dream; (1)
the old man with cataracted eyes told me, "the last (2)
train out of town was full of dreamers. You've missed your chance." I guess safety (3)
is for those brave enough to uproot themselves from what they consider home. You never had an issue leaving, my Mariposa; (4)
I never knew if my words would find you in alleyway graffiti, of if you might catch a reminder of me in the cities you shed (5)
as you blaze your own path. We still share the same cerulean (6)

sky, a farmland riddled with whispy clouds, not so dissimilar to the mudpits of the wheat fields back home. They've long been scorched by those clad in cerulean, (6)
who have been taught that there is no difference between what lurks in nightmares to what could be born from a dream. (3)
I sometimes find myself clutching now-dried effigies of clay in the old shed, (5)
wishing I could still delicately sew the fantastical from the earth; my last (2)
effort left only dark splotches of soil on the wall. I so desperately miss the mundane celebration of our art, my Mariposa. (4)
The eyes of our patrons have lost their luster, and I have heard more applause from distant gunfire than from hands. Safety (3)

exists then as an exercise in being ordinary, in the dwindling notes or remarks of once-close friends that "this too shall pass." We are the antithesis to safety (3)
in their eyes. They think our small numbers cast a large shadow, yet it is their cerulean (6)
banners that blot out the sun. In darkness, I tell myself that maybe it is not too late to live among those who do not know they want me dead. My Mariposa, (4)
could you forgive me? Is there still a life where I sell my pottery at the market before church, dream (1)
as I stare at the altar only a lie of me will stand at, while the reality of what I am is the last (2)
thought on my mind? I often sit alone in the shed— (5)

one day, maybe I could host classes here again, if only I could ignore how every well-meaning pair of eyes looks through me like a window; the thought someone might know makes me what to shed (5)
my skin, and crawl under the clutch of cobbles that hug our oxbow's bend. There was safety in our spot once, at least for our trinkets and baubles. Last (2)
time I dared to step off the road to seek it, I feared that cerulean (6)
eyes would meet me with every cracking stick or rustled bush. We once played here as children, made our crescent moon cove a dream-(1)
land. I sought each long-gone step, tracing the lines of footprints erased by lapping water— my Mariposa (4)

I've tried so hard to remember what that joy once felt like, but the seasons have changed; Is it summer there, my Mariposa, (4)
or have you let the revolution wash over you like icy water. Selkie, have you shed (5)
your sealskin cloak to walk unencumbered through the world? Traveler, I dream (1)
in the postcard messages you send. The safety (3)
of your words tells me, for a moment, that the dark ocean of the world is but a cerulean (6)
pond. Yet both paint the world their own shade of blue; What is our place in a blue world? What remains when all the hues fade out at last (2)

light? I've seen the pallor of the dead, kissed a girl with blue lips on the day she didn't know to be her last. (2)
She was the baker's apprentice, the one who gave us free danishes, who you swore had her eyes on me for just a moment too long. My Mariposa, (4)
they erased the shrine erected for her in the bakery's window, the cerulean (6)
soldiers made it as though she never existed at all. Soon the pastries they eat will not have been kneaded by her hands, no more will they shed (5)
crumbs imprinted with her fingerprint topography. Maybe this is what they mean as they talk of safety (3)
in their pamphlets and speeches. I'll remember her in each dream (1)

that keeps me from waking once more in this cerulean (6) world. The last (2)
any will know of us will be in a dream (1) turned nightmare. My Mariposa, (4)
shed (5) no tears for me, and stay far from this place; know I pray you find your safety. (3)

«SCP-9231-Omega-2 Analysis Copy»

End words: "sister", "shadows", "strength", " "threat", "certain", "ash"

One must not let anhedonia swallow her whole, my dearest sister. (1)
Fear is a collection of coyotes, a wretch which only achieves full ferocity in evening shadows, (2)
its meager numbers obscured in echoing howls. I do not mean to imply that coyotes have no strength; (3)
The crimson which outlines the fields they walk with slick bootprints is evidence enough of the threat, (4)
but you must remember they are merely mutts. They are dangerous, but their victory is not certain. (5)
We will watch history's ire turn on them, as crabs eat their flesh, as their bones transform to ash. (6)

We will outlast them all. We will survive to remember the names they turned to ash, (6)
to make sense of their attempt to assassinate our future. For all their pomp and bluster, sister, (1)
they are not omnipotent. They will bend the knee to time and dreams, I am certain, (5)
the same fate that awaits us and those who share our air. The shadows (2)
of black-clad reapers comes for us all in the end, whether hunted or hound. The threat (4)
of annihilation only becomes fact if we let it be so. Do not let despair siphon the strength (3)

from your heart. A war against life brings tragedy, like sickness steals your strength, (3)
and creeping despair follows not far behind both. You must warm yourself with the fireplace ash, (6)
must not let the cold seize your thoughts. Despair is as great a threat (4)
to us as military dogs; We manifest their triumph when we imagine it set in stone, Sister. (1)
The winter air may chill our bones, but it is a choice to linger in shadows (2)
cast by would-be executioners. We are dreamers, sister, so let us dream, when the future is not certain. (5)

When time itself comes to gaze upon what we've made of our lives, I am certain (5)
of what it shall see: There will be laughing and alcohol, no need for the strength (3)
we now need in such a peaceful world. There will be shadows (2)
then too, I'm sure, but we will look back upon this time of scarlet and ash, (6)
and be thankful that history passed us by. We will spend our natural lives together, sister, (1)
If that is what you want. All you must do is use the very blessing which has made us such a threat (4)

In the eyes of those who'd hound us — The art of dreaming. The threat (4)
us dreamers pose is that we imagine a world where violence no longer rules, where certain (5)
powers that be are no longer fixtures of order. It is not easy to live life as a threat to power, Sister, (1)
I know that as well as you. It is no small feat of strength (3)
to proclaim that you belong, when power manifest blankets your world in ash. (6)
It is not easy to have to hide. To watch others perish, knowing all you can do is stick to shadows. (2)

Everything has an end, Sister, even when it is a moment in time. One day we will step from the shadows, (2)
when this hunt of our kin has burnt itself out. One day, any threat (4)
we face will be embers, not yet ready to upturn our lives in ash. (6)
At night, there will be no coyote cries, and we will sleep, knowing for certain (5)
that nobody will come to take our hearts while we run. We are strength (3)
embodied; We will live, should we chose to hope, Sister. (1)

Do not let the ash (6) clouds keep your mind in shadows. (2)
Someday soon, my Sister, (1) we'll live unburdened by this threat. (4)
I am certain (5) I will see you again, survived through your strength. (3)

«SCP-9231-Omega-3 Analysis Copy»

End words: "exist", "wealth", "Swallowtail", "wreck", "silver", "sober";

I have learned to speak softly, sublimate myself in the masses to exist (1)
and unexist in the dim parhelions of streetlights. A wealth (2)
of knowledge to survive is not so readily inherited; your cut was always much larger, my Swallowtail. (3)
You were resourceful, quick, less sentimental in the way you moved on from each wreck (4)
of a place we once called home. You were always the gold to my silver, (5)
though I did not feel jealous standing next to you, as the less-than-sober (6)

crowds applauded for who knows what. It's the sober (6)
thoughts that scare me, the ones that linger in each doorway and keepsake, exist (1)
as grinning ghosts in glass and silver- (5)
ware begging to be polished. I trade them for time now. Wealth (2)
never appealed to me, and the material becomes less tangible the deeper this wreck (4)
of circumstances sinks. Worry not, my Swallowtail, (3)

I have spared your belongings and any heirlooms you may want to pass one day to a family. My Swallowtail, (3)
I have chased the thought of marriage from this home, chased liquor with a warm body to let the sober (6)
nightmare of routine die. This is not the home you left, not the sister you thought would wreck (4)
herself, cracking like an egg under the pressure. But I must make what I can control now, to tell myself I exist (1)
as more than a caged animal, that I can still change enough to choose— a wealth (2)
of splotchy memories of faces remains. The metallic taste of silver (5)

remains as I lay alone in the morning; who would ever trade a thing like me for 30 pieces? Silver— (5)
I have never been worth more than that, my Swallowtail, (3)
but maybe there's a special pride in being the first loser. The fame, the wealth (2)
of the spotlight is elsewhere. I need it to be. In the corner of the bar, a sober (6)
soldier watches as I pick up shifts. His eyes scan the occupants, the device in his pocket tells him, in hushed doppler, who shall be allowed to exist. (1)
If he were here during the heyday, his ravagers might have made a wreck (4)

of this place — so few of us remain, those still holding out, or those without the means to escape this wreck. (4)
I stare at the profile of his pistol for too long, until he calls me over, and I can see my reflection in the silver (5)
polished of the blood from last night's hunt. Yet he asks me to sit, exist (1)
just a moment to chat. I thought my tremulous hands would betray me, my Swallowtail, (3)
that each held breath would give me away. His sober (6)
eyes tell me to run, as his words remark on the aesthetics of a town emptied of its wealth (2)

by his raiders. He reassures me that things are improving in the shadow of members of the community whose missing wealth (2)
of kindness and spirit ring hollower than the morning breeze through the burnt-out car wreck (4)
of the hopeful. I mask myself in inebriation; only fear controls me while sober, (6)
and a misdelivered comment can be turned silver (5)
by the hints of oak or hops they're carried on. I stare at my ceiling and dream of what-ifs, my Swallowtail. (3)
What is worth trading for more time? How is it worth it to just… continue to exist? (1)

May you face the world with a more sober (6) demeanor, sister. A wealth (2)
of knowledge, of the world that may exist (1), breathes beyond this wreck. (4)
Receive the world's gift in silver (5), and with love, my Swallowtail. (3)

«SCP-9231-Omega-4 Analysis Copy»

End words: "voice", "bear", "flesh", "dim", "vultures", "sun";

Sister, though I always cherish your parchment words, there is little I would not give to now hear your voice. (1)
Alas, there is little left for a dreamer like me to give. I feel like a mother bear, (2)
mourning the loss of her cubs who she did not know. The smell of putrefying flesh (3)
and burnt hair greets me in all my dreams. Even when I escape, it lingers, dim, (4)
but always at the back of my senses. I have seen too many vultures (5)
flying lazily to a barbecue for my nose to forget the smell. As the Sun (6)

rises, I see and smell what they have done to our kin. I hear it with the setting sun. (6)
I'm glad you were not there, on the night of scorched feathers. It is one thing to hear a whispered voice (1)
recount what befell countless dreamers that night, another to have seen the human vultures (5)
return to the scene of their massacre to prevent even our bones from resting. I cannot bear (2)
the fact I lived. Why not the young painter I met, who's eyes went dim (4)
when a bullet pierced his skull? He barely had time to learn of all the wonders of this world, before becoming a flesh (3)

pile, and I live still. I do not wish to die, sister, but why was I chosen to live when their flesh (3)
now rots in the maws of scavengers? Why did I live to see the sun (6)
rise again, when so many others burnt that night? The world feels more dim (4)
without their songs and dreams. At night, I hear the collective voice (1)
of that camp scream out like a dying animal, all that needless suffering. I cannot bear (2)
to close my eyes at night. They are hiding behind my eyelids, asking me how I differ from the vultures (5)

who sent them to an early grave. I don't think they would begrudge me, but I feel like one of the vultures. (5)
As though my chance survival is evidence of a betrayal of my flesh (3)
and blood, like there is no difference between a coward and an enemy. When they began to bear (2)
down on us from the hills, I ran like a jackrabbit for as long as it took the sun (6)
to make its way around the Earth again. I still hear the voice (1)
of a hero behind me, gathering dreamers to protect dreamers, as the dim (4)

evening erupted in screaming fire. When the violence had begun to dim, (4)
I no longer heard her voice, or the voices of any dreamers. Just the sound of vultures, (5)
and stomping boots. Would things have been different if I had stayed? Could my voice (1)
have been what our kin needed to maintain the anchor of their souls to their flesh? (3)
I know it probably would have made no difference. I should feel lucky to see the sun (6)
rise again, but I only feel an indescribable burden which is now mine to bear. (2)

Winter is in the air. The leaves fall when the wind blows, and I saw a bear (2)
growing larger, as the days began to slim. I envy him; The bear knows the dim (4)
of the world will return to vibrancy soon. I cannot say the same. As I glimpse the sun (6)
through treeline, each look could be my last. Our murderers patrol the woods like they are vultures, (5)
and my death is a given. Were they not satisfied with the pounds and pounds of flesh (3)
they rendered inert that night? Sister, I pray that night in Paris will not be the last I heard your voice. (1)

Every day, with the setting sun (6), the losses become harder to bear. (2)
The warmth in my voice (1) is gone, my senses grow duller. (4)
The calls of vultures (5) will soon find their home by my flesh. (3)

«SCP-9231-Omega-5 Analysis Copy»

End words: "you", "shadow", "bread", "silence", "watercolor", "crimson";

You (1)
are only real in drafts of missives and sepia photographs, a shadow (2)
of what was dances in the living room. We used to break bread (3)
here, start and end our days in the presence of each other, even if that meant in silence. (4)
Your footsteps will never fall again on these floors; I clench my fists when I peek at the watercolor (5)
murals on your wall. What is it you saw in every horizon, every crimson (6)

yolk that spills out at the start of each day? We no longer look at the sky, yet crimson (6)
still stains the roads; did the once-safe shortcuts bleed for you (1)
too? How did these pigments inspire — where was your fear as they diluted each watercolor (5)
silhouette of someone we once loved? What fairness— I weep as I argue with the shadow (2)
in the untouched folds of when you last sat on your bed. In the silence, (4)

I hear only the reminder of my beating heart. Why does it keep beating? I pray that silence (4)
may one day take me, but I lack the courage to shed my own crimson. (6)
No. No death is too fair a fate for me while your work goes unfinished. Sister, shadow, (2)
in body and mind and spirit, let me be you, (1)

who I failed to protect with my words. As I was once your shield, let me be the blade you (1)
never wanted me to be, the turned worm, let the midnight silence (4)
paint me as the thing they fear most, the shadow (2)

that they could never hope to kill. An idea is a powerful thing, the shadow (2)
that is cast in no sun. A final reminder of you (1)

and I. Sing with me now, sister, wherever your voice may be, entwined, as oblivion erases the line between I and you. (1)

The date on the envelope containing SCP-9231-Omega-5 indicates this is the newest instance of SCP-9231 within Foundation files. It is possible that SCP-9231-Omega-5 was the final instance of SCP-9231 created, given that sources agree that all SCP-9231 instances lost their anomalous properties some time in the early 1970s. Dr. Luca Armaros has theorized that the collective trauma inflicted during the Ichabod Campaign may have caused the authors of the SCP-9231-Omega series to unintentionally use their reality bending capacities to remove SCP-9231's anomalous effects; While potentially possible, this hypothesis remains untestable.

Footnotes

« SCP-9230 | SCP-9231 | SCP-9232 »

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