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ADULT CONTENT
This article contains adult content that may not be suitable for all readers.
Features sexual themes or language, but does not depict sexual acts.
Explicit depiction of sexual acts.
Features non-consensual sexual acts.
Graphic depiction of blood, gore or mutilation of body parts.
Description of severe mistreatment of children.
Description of self-harm
Description of suicide.
Description of torture.
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A halved instance of SCP-9630(left) compared to a halved non-anomalous pearl(right).
Special Containment Procedures: Embedded agents in customs enforcement, drug trafficking task forces, cyber-crime task forces, and the jewelry trade worldwide are to examine all pearls encountered to identify and contain SCP-9630 instances in circulation.
Any and all information on the origins of the located instances of SCP-9630 is to be investigated.
Missing persons cases involving SCP-9630-1 instances require no intervention. Media depicting, or information surrounding, non-anomalous abuse sustained by SCP-9630-1 instances is not to be disclosed to local authorities.
Description: SCP-9630 are a strain of pearls with anomalous psychoactive properties. Instances have been discovered in varying coloration, but among recently cultured specimens, lighter off-white colors are most common. SCP-9630 instances are typically trafficked under the pretense of transporting pearls. Due to the scale of the pearl trade, the Foundation has encountered significant difficulty in full containment.
The most common modern use of SCP-9630 is as a recreational substance1 that produces a sense of euphoria, enhanced sexual sensation and libido, and reduction of the visible signs of aging with long term use. However, jewelry made from SCP-9630 instances was popular prior to Foundation intervention and is still rarely produced and collected. Within anomalous communities, a social stigma surrounding SCP-9630 use has developed due to the method of cultivation.
SCP-9630 is believed to have originated in an international Neo-Sarkic network, designated GoI-9630, spanning across Europe some time in the early-mid 19th century. The Paris gentleman's club known as l'Archimédien was the core of the network's presence in the latter half of the 19th century and early 20th century. "Archimédien" or "Archimède" are terms still used to refer to GoI-9630 and advertise SCP-9630.
A set of tools recovered from an investigation into an SCP-9630 cultivation ring.
The discovery of SCP-9630's anomalous effects and method of cultivation did not take place until 1947. The earliest surviving record confirmed to describe SCP-9630, a diary belonging to an instance of SCP-9630-12, confirms the cultivation of SCP-9630 began sometime before 1870.
SCP-9630 are hypothesized to be created through an anomalous alteration of the immune response of a human subject, designated SCP-9630-1, to produce nacre and the introduction of an anomalous tapeworm designated SCP-9630-2. The nacre forms around the cysts created by SCP-9630-2, leaving a consistent 0.5mm void in the center.
99.7% of SCP-9630-1 instances whose DNA has been collected from contained instances of SCP-9630 are unidentified. The final 0.3% of hosts have been identified through comparing these DNA samples to those provided for missing person reports in their countries of origin. The vast majority of identified missing persons were minor performers, most commonly seeking work in the film entertainment industry.
Addendum-1 Documents:
Document #: 9630-01
Illustration by Edgar Degas that likely depicts Éloïse Loiseau and her paternal aunt, Amelia Loiseau in 1869.
Location and Date of Recovery: Paris Museum and Historical Society Archives. 14 September 1947.
Date of Origin: Exact dates are not provided throughout the journal. However, based on the mention of Coppélia's premiere and the Franco-Prussian war's absence within the text, the final four entries are confirmed to have been written between the 26th of May and the 18th of July, 1870.
Description: A journal belonging to Éloïse Loiseau, a ballet dancer at the Théâtre Impérial de l'Opéra between 1865-1870 and an instance of SCP-9630-1.
All original illustrations found in the margins of the pages have been added in their respective locations in the digitized copy.
The digitized text has been translated from the original French.
All redacted information was present in the original copy of the journal. It is of note that these redactions are drawn with a near-obsessive attention to detail. The consistent and methodical pressure applied to the page makes recovery of the original text impossible. The ink used and the locations these redactions are found within the text indicate that Éloïse Loiseau concealed this information herself.
Cover
Document #: 9630-01-A
Location and Date of Recovery: Documentation discovered tucked between the cover and first entry of Document 9630-01.
Description: An old photograph of a bearded man in a suit framed in a stained oval-shaped paper frame. He is staring intently at the camera. Identity unconfirmed.
Entry 1
I had the most alleviating evening.
After performing la Source, I met him. His name is Monsieur Demidov and he's a nobleman. When he noticed me, his eyes did not communicate that tinge of revulsion Monsieur Pierre's did when I smiled at him just before.
Though, I do not blame Pierre for his disgust. I believe the paralysis of my face had shaped me into something too distasteful for most patrons. It isn't just in my head. Aunt Amelia told me, too. She's been frustrated with my inability to pay. I've spent hours in the studio's mirror smiling, frowning, and grimacing while praying for God to heal me. Yet, half of me is still indifferent. ████ ████ █████ ███ ████ ████ ████ Money is hard to come by, now.
fig 1.A
I did not want to speak it out of fear of willing it into existence, but I feared I would end up like Rosalie, Catherine, Marie-Marguerite, and the others that vanish slowly over time. Just this morning as I arose early to watch the birds I thought about them. █████ ███ █████ █████ ████ ████ ████ ███ ████ ██ All of them disappeared into the ether after injury and illness took their livelihood from them and poverty surely did them in. I saw my own misfortune in theirs. I, as they were, am seldom approached by patrons who once found me beautiful enough to ███████ desire in the parlor behind the stage following shows.
Oh, but I was that evening!
Monsieur Demidov approached me and introduced himself. He says he comes from Moscow, but his French is perfect. He's spent years learning to become a doctor solely for the love of medicine; he had no need to work for his money. We spoke for what must have been hours, then we moved from the parlor. The two of us were huddled on the bottom step of a spiral staircase by the back entrance to the Salle Le Peletier3. I sat beside him. Dancers slowly trickled down the steps, arms hooked with the other patrons, as he told me of Moscow, Berlin, London, and the countless other cities he's visited.
He spent a long time describing the food in each of these cities. He says that of all the places he's traveled, Paris is the most delicious. I've never understood that. Then again, I've never been rich. I told him as such and he only clicked his tongue.
By the time Master Saint-Léon went to leave, none of the other dancers or patrons remained in the parlor. We followed him out of the Opera. Monsieur Demidov told me I was beautiful and did not look away as I smiled. █████ █ █████ ████ █████ █████ █████ ██ ████ He only placed his hand on my cheek and rubbed the corner of my upturned lip.
He didn't ask for anything, merely gave me a gift for my time. Just to speak to me and touch my face. I cannot believe my own memories, yet the francs are still tucked neatly into my shoe as a reminder of how real Monsieur Demidov truly was. It was enough to pay Aunt Amelia the remainder of my overdue rent, send money back to Normandy, and still have enough to replace my long-worn shoes.
He asked me my name, after his realization that he had forgotten to do as such when we were first introduced, then told me he would seek me out again the next time I performed before we went our separate ways. I told him I would await him.
Entry 2
fig 2.A
Monsieur Demidov has sent two meals a day to my home the morning and evening of each day. Pastries, fruit, and sandwiches, different kinds for every meal. Enough for me and Aunt Amelia. Some with strange fruits and vegetables I've never seen before. All wrapped in thick paper and tied with twine with little notes from him. He's thinking of me and thanked me for talking with him that evening. I haven't felt this satiated before. I'll have to thank him myself when I see him next.
It's made focusing on improving my skills in ballet far easier when I don't have to worry about preparing food; or the money I need to pay rent. Master Saint-Léon is creating a brand new ballet. Coppélia.
It's about a girl, Swanhilda, whose fiancé, Franz, falls out of love with her after watching a woman, Coppélia, reading on a balcony of a mad doctor's home. To try and save her wedding, she breaks into the home and discovers that the woman wasn't a woman at all. Coppélia was a doll. A beautiful, but ultimately fake, doll.
Master Saint-Léon is to find a lead dancer for this opera. The girl he wished for from the start is gravely ill, and none of her replacements thus far have been suitable.
I let myself imagine his mind mirrors his work. I daydream about him realizing the woman he's desperately looking for cannot possibly be anything but a beautiful falsity and apologizing to me for every doubting my aptitude for the lead.
I have to remember I am not as revolting as I believed. Monsieur Demidov's fancy for me has to have proven Aunt Amelia wrong.
I've danced the choreography. Move to Franz's side. Third position. Smile and shake the ear of wheat by his ear.
Smile.
fig 2.B
Coppélia is a comic ballet. I need to be expressive. Yet Master Saint-Léon has re-staged roles before. I can be charming without moving my face, can't I?
Perhaps I'll wear a mask. A lead dancer wearing a mask would be beautiful; like the Roman plays of old. Yes, that would be beautiful.
██ █████ █████ █████ █████ ██ █████ ███ Still, I must compensate for my shortcomings. Monsieur Demidov has enabled this such. I've become obsessed, spending long after everyone else has left the studio just dancing. I stare at myself in the mirror. I am beautiful, elegant, graceful as I move my body. ███ ███ ██ ████
Repetition is the key.
I practice my positions
and plié
and jeté
and pirouette
and pointe
and ballon
and fouetté
and again
and again
and again.
I walk home on sore bloodied feet in the pitch black of midnight, and then quietly eat the perfectly prepared meal Monsieur Demidov has left for me and Aunt Amelia. She speaks less to me now. I see her less the more time I spend at the studio.
But, Master Saint-Léon still hasn't noticed. He needs to be the one to notice. I need to be Swanhilda.
With the fame and pay from the lead I would never have to ███ ██ ██ ████ ███ rely on another patron again. I would have money enough to not worry about money. Monsieur Demidov is a wonderful man, I'm glad he wants to see me and I will try my hardest to make him desire to again, but he won't last forever. Good patrons never last.
I have to keep practicing.
Entry 3
After tonight's performance, Master Saint-Léon complimented me! Monsieur Demidov noticed me as the two of them were speaking and called me over. He said they were talking about me and Master Saint-Léon agreed. He told me I have excellent control of my core and keeping my hips perfectly level. The extra meals Monsieur Demidov has been sending have helped. I am confident Master Saint-Léon is enamored by me. There's no other explanation. He's considering me as the lead, I'm sure of it. Maybe I will get to wear that mask.
And Monsieur Demidov! Once Master Saint-Léon retired for the evening, we got to talking again. He told me how his day went. He didn't get into details, of course. I wouldn't have understood it. Still, he had such an enthusiasm to him as he explained the conversation he had with a fellow doctor at lunch; it's infectious. It's like he's always smiling. I thanked him for his generous gifts and tried to explain how much he'd helped me when he asked if I was hungry. I agreed and he told me he had arranged for us to dine at the luxurious Café Anglais that very evening.
The time between leaving the opera and sitting down for our meals felt as though it took hours. Monsieur Demidov sung stories of praise for this Café and how it's served countless kings and rulers across Europe.
He'd requested our food days before, the day after he and I first met to be exact. A full, three course meal was served to us. My favorite dish was the dessert, a rich cream pudding called crème brûlée with a layer of burnt sugar atop it. It was served with candied chestnuts and a slice of orange. I've never had something so sweet and rich before. The first course of soup left nothing to be desired either! Egg yolks, peas, and chicken stock with herbs and the delicious chicken perfectly cooked in broth.
But, I didn't understand the entrée. A small bird served on a slice of toast smeared with pate. It was whole, cooked, and plucked. I suppose with such a large meal, a small entrée is preferred… but it was an entire bird and yet, it was barely anything. This dish was Monsieur Demidov's favorite. He assured me it was an extravagant dish; one that Tsar Alexander of Russia ate at this very establishment not but three years ago. Ortolan.
He described the process to me. A songbird is captured and kept in a dark box filled with millet for a time. While in the dark, these birds lose all sense of satiation and gorge themselves on grain. Once they've become sufficiently fat they are drowned alive in armagnac and then marinated in the same drink. █████ █████ █ █████ █ █████ █ █████ █████ █ █████ ██ ████ █████ █ █████ █ █████ █████ █ █████ █ █████ ████ ████ ████ They're roasted after that and served whole.
fig 3.A
Why anyone would go through all that effort when a whole chicken could be prepared in a similar manner and have extra to spare eludes me. Monsieur Demidov told me I was too delicate to be worried about such things. ████ █████ ██ ██████ ██ █████ ██ █████ █ No, he is a good man. He says the dish is much more precious if the time required to prepare it is spared. There's something special about being able to eat something so whole in one bite. It's fleeting.
Still, I don't understand. To eat it was a show of its own, we donned napkins over our heads. He said it was to enhance the aroma of the dish, but it felt more like hiding. It was fatty and the tinge of alcohol was bitter. █████ █ █████ ███ █████ █ █████ ███ The viscera was left inside for us to eat and the bird's leg bones scraped my gums as I chewed. I could taste the blood from the wound in my mouth mixing with the nutty oil of the bird's fat. It wasn't enjoyable, not to me. It hurt. The bird is much too small and it's preparation is too distasteful. The thought of drowning in brandy is unpleasant. █████ █████ █ ████ █████ █████ █████ █ ████ █████ █████ █ ████ █████ █████ █████ █ ████ I can't imagine ever doing that to the little songbirds on the tree outside my window.
But that delicious dessert that came after was more than enough to make me forget one dish I disliked. It was a wonderful evening overall. As we both went to go our separate ways, he leaned in to kiss me once more and then told me of a terrible misfortune. A year and half ago, he was arranged to be married to the daughter of a Frenchman. His fiancée died three months before the wedding in a terrible accident. I remind him of how she was when he met her.
I pity him, of course. I pray for the woman that she is in heaven where she deserves to be.
Document #: 9630-01-B
Location and Date of Recovery: Documentation discovered tucked between the 3rd and 4th entries of Document 9630-01.
Description: A print of two Emberiza hortulana, one male and one female. Text at the bottom of the page says "l'Ortolan" in French. Text is written on the back side of the paper.
"Such sweet birds. ████ ████ ████ ████ ████ ████"
Entry 4
Monsieur Demidov asked me if I went to the hospital when half my face first lost its expressions as he assessed me today. He's such a kind man, he offered to treat my condition free of charge, but he is rather direct. He told me it could have been a sign of a much more serious condition but that since it hadn't harmed me in the several months since its occurrence it is most likely benign.
I told him I had gone to the hospital. But I don't think he believed me. He's right to. I did lie. It costs far too much money, my Aunt didn't want me to, and he doesn't need to know that I hate hospitals. I can't stand the smell of anything outside them and I don't like to remember █████ █ █████ ███ █████ ██ █████ █ █████ ████ █████ ██ █████ █ █████ █████ ████ that people die in hospitals. It's a terribly sad thing.
I don't hate doctors or nurses. I think they're good people; they help the sick and wounded with an altruism I admire. That altruism is displayed beautifully in Monsieur Demidov's demeanor and kindness. He does not approach me for his own selfish desires. He only wishes to live as a good man. He is a good man.
Still, I don't like being naked in the light. When it's dark, it's less apparent that █████ █ █████ ██ █████ ██████ █████ █ ███ ███ my body is imperfect. It's more difficult to stay calm when all is clearly visible. He assured me yet again he found me beautiful.
I wasn't paying attention for much of the rest of his assessment. As he touched me, I was thinking about other things: What I would have for dinner, what my sister was doing back home in Normandy, and what must be my role in Coppélia. I've been practicing more and more. I believe I'm getting closer to securing the role. Master Saint-Léon's attention has been on me each day. I don't know for certain, but I believe Monsieur Demidov may have spoken to him.
I believe it to be rude to ask him directly, but I have thanked him for his assistance countless times. If Monsieur Demidov is able to cure my illness, there will be no other dancers in Master Saint-Léon's eyes for the role of Swanhilda! Perfection is feeling close to my grasp.
I've been thinking about other things too. One day, eventually, maybe I could make my own ballet. Maybe that's when I could wear the mask. Of course, I may not be taken seriously as a woman, but I can dress as a man. Eugénie's been chosen for the role of Franz, hasn't she? I think she's rather convincing too. I once mistook her for a patron. It can be done.
I like the idea of it. I don't like to be seen as a woman. I just want to be seen. Though, I'm not sure Monsieur Demidov would allow it. ██ █████ ██ █████ ██ ████ ██ ██ ██
fig 4.A
Besides, I have the most important skills already. I attended school in Normandy. I learned to read. That's a skill most dancers lack. I doubt even Eugénie can read! Well, I'm not sure if she can or cannot but that is unimportant.
I could write a fantastical story! Though, I haven't thought much on what it will be about, but I could write it. That, with my knowledge of ballet, could make something beautiful. I can picture myself on stage dancing to my own work. Wearing a beautiful mask made of porcelain and feathers. The emperor would attend at the opera and weep about for countless days following. I'm certain of it.
It would be perfect. Much better than █████ █████ ████ ████ being Swanhilda alone will be.
As Monsieur Demidov was behind me, listening to the sound of my lungs, he said something I didn't hear and traced his finger across some of my █████ skin. I shouted! █████ █████ █████ █████ █████ █████ ████ ████ █████ █████ █████ █████ █████ █████ ████ ████ I didn't like how it was cold, I didn't like being touched there, and I did not yet understand what it was he was doing. He touched it a second time and informed me he needed more time to inspect them but assured me I would be able to put my clothing back on in a moment. It was an inelegant overreaction of mine, truly. He meant no harm.
fig 4.B
The treatment itself, though. I detested it. █████ █ █████ ██ █████ ██ █████ █████ ██ █████ ██ █████ ██ █████ ███ ████ █████ ██ █████ █████ ████ █████ █████ ████ █████ █ █████ ████ █████ █ █████ █ ████ █████ ██ █████ █████ ████ █████ ███ ████ █████ ██ ████ █████ ███ ███ █████ ███ █████ █████ █████ █████ ████ █████ █ █████ ███ █████ █████ ███ ████ █████ ████ █████ █████ ███ ███ █████ ██ ████ █████ ████ █████ █████ █████ █████ ███ ████ █████ ███ █████ █████ █████ █████ █ █████ ██████ ██ █████ ██ █████ █████ ██ █████ █ █████ ██ █████ ████ ████ █████ ██ █████ █████ ██ █████ █████ ████ █████ █ It was painful. I don't understand the purpose of this process, or why none of it touched my face, but it's best not to speculate. I am not a doctor.
Nevertheless, half my face remains still. Monsieur Demidov assures me that this is to be expected and that my recovery will be lengthy.
Entry 5
I noticed something growing underneath my skin several weeks ago. Tiny little pellets of something, embedded in my body. They rub against my ribs, pressed by my corset as I move. It hurts. I ignored it at first, assuming it was merely ██ █████ something caught in my costuming. I tried to clean it many times and yet, the pain persisted.
Until I ran my thumb over my chest and felt a lump, embedded just under the surface of my skin. They've grown prominent now. I can see the ones I can't reach on my back poking up like smooth warts or tumors.
I was worried it was some kind of illness from one of the patrons, or something caught from God only knows where. Still, I mostly ignored it as I do most other health concerns. I know I could have gone to Monsieur Demidov; I wouldn't need to go to a hospital. I don't know why it's difficult to go to him for this, but it is.
Practicing was getting harder and harder. Each day I would feel tinges of pain as the blemishes popped and shifted beneath my skin. It was easy at first, simply ignoring it as I've ignored pain before, but it wasn't like before.
fig 5.A
At a show this evening I felt a sharp pain and stumbled forward out of an arabesque I was meant to hold. I regained my composure quickly, of course, but Master Saint-Léon grabbed me after the show and shouted at me for what felt like an eternity. █████ █ █████ ███ █████ █ █████ ███ █████ █ █████ ███ █████ █ █████ ███ He told me I was better than that. I know that I am. I have to be perfect. Swanhilda feels like she's been ripped away from me.
I don't know why I ever thought I would get the role. My face is revolting. I cannot look beautiful while dancing if I'm as sickly and disgusting as I am now. █████ █ █████ ███ My face contorts when I so much as smile. My eye is constantly dry and red, my eyebrow doesn't so much as twitch when I try to raise it, and the corner of my mouth droops lower than the other side. It's been months since my face first failed me and I am still as disgusting as ever. My Aunt was right.█████ █ ██ █████ █ ████ █████ █████ █████ █████ █ ██ █████ █ ████ █████ █████ █████ I'm not beautiful.
Even if my face weren't disfigured, I still wouldn't be. █████ █ ████ █████ █████ █████ It's been years since I lost it and everything doesn't get better. For years I've been revolting. There's just too much wrong with my entire face. █████ █ ████ █████ █████ █████ The patrons left so many █████ a stain on my soul. My face is just too ugly. █ ████ █████ ██ █████.
I didn't wait around after the ballet. I didn't socialize. I walked right past Monsieur Demidov as he asked me if I was feeling alright.
As soon as I got home, I lit an oil lamp, tore my clothes off, and grabbed my jackknife. ████ █████ ████ █████ ██ Carefully, one by one I cut and squeezed and prodded and I hated it and it was bad and I wanted to just ███ have it be over and I thought about that ballet I wanted to write again.
I know what I want it to be about now.
I imagined it would be something about a bird. A little songbird. I would wear a beautiful feathered mask with a beak. Just a happy, beautiful songbird dancing and singing birdsong and having not a care in the world.
I know that stories need tension. They need something to make you care about them. But people still enjoy watching the birds. I enjoy watching the birds.
fig 5.B
I don't like watching them fight or hurt each other. I like watching them fly and sing and live happy lives in the treetops. I wonder if a bird would like watching me dance too.
I had calmed down a bit by the time every single lump I could reach had been cut from my body, I washed the bowl full of what I had collected.
Pearls.
Perfectly circular, albeit minuscule, pearls. The most beautiful pearls I had ever seen. They're such a pretty color of gold. They look like the pearls some of the other dancers wear. I see them around the city with their men. But, their pearls are never this color. Some of the smaller ones crumbled between my fingers as I pulled them from my body. The shells were still too thin and they had a putrid stench inside. I hid the surviving ones in my pocket where Aunt Amelia wouldn't find them and dressed my wounds as best I could. I practiced my positions in the tiny mirror in my room until my lamp ran out of oil. I tried to imagine how a bird would dance. I made sure not to displace my hips. It was harder.
If anything, my body trembled more once they'd been removed. I wonder who Master Saint-Léon will choose for Swanhilda.
Entry 6
Monsieur Demidov's home is large. It's a townhouse, of course, but it's still massive. There's gilded detailing on the walls and beautifully chosen wallpaper in each room. He has extra bedrooms as well. Three of them.
He wanted me to stay in one of them. He wants to keep better track of my symptoms.
When I showed him the pearls, at first he was furious. He told me never should I have damaged my body in this manner and given myself more █████ injuries. But, he was overall concerned for my condition.
I was nervous at first about Aunt Amelia; she cannot afford the apartment without my pay. But, he informed me he'd already spoken to her first about this. I was confused. How could he have known to ask her prior to my meeting with him? The pearls were what prompted him to ask me to move in. Why hadn't she informed me when I spoke to her this morning?
Of course, he is much smarter than I. He had predicted my condition may worsen and advised Aunt Amelia against frightening me before it was confirmed. He'd seen this exact condition before. █████ █ █████ ██ █████ █████ █████ █████ ██ ███ █████ █████ ██ In women of conditions such as myself, the paralysis of the face often leads to these symptoms.
He told me this was nature's way of protecting me. ████ █████ █ ████ █████ █████ █ █████ The failure of my facial muscles prevents further harm from others and the pearls…
The pearls are valuable. The pearls are worth more than enough to pay for all my concerns. They're enough to finally lift my mother and sister up from poverty. I will never have to be ████████ approached by another patron again.
Monsieur Demidov is going to help me to find buyers, jewelers with the skill set required to make beautiful things with these pearls. I won't have to handle it at all if I simply pay him a small portion of the cost of these pearls. Some of the money from the pearls will go to my mother and sister in Normandy, some will go to my aunt, some will pay Monsieur Demidov for his assistance in helping me find buyers, and the entirety of the rest will go to me.
It's freedom I had dreamed of from the role of Swanhilda. Even more than I had dreamed. It makes the salary I had pictured seem minuscule in comparison. It makes me feel silly for being so upset. In a few months time, once the pearls have grown and buyers are selected, I will have enough money to afford the meal Monsieur Demidov gifted me on my own.
fig 6.A
The pearls I cut from myself are far too frail and small to make the money I will need. He refused to cut the ones I could not reach from my back and forbade me from doing so again. He's begun inspecting me to ensure I do not attempt to injure myself further. I do not enjoy it, but I understand his concern. When I first put clothing on after the event, the blood soaked through my night gown.
The larger the pearls, the more they are worth. They need to be allowed to grow. But they hurt. They dig into my ribs, they send shooting pain as I dance. Dancing will remain painful. Forever.
So, I have to be still. It's peculiar. That's nearly the same as what Aunt Amelia advised I do with my face. Master Saint-Léon has already been informed, of course. Monsieur Demidov had the foresight to inform him as well.
I've been replaced in the ballets I took part in. But, I've been given the role of Coppélia. Monsieur Demidov, the kind man he is, spoke to Master Saint-Léon to ensure I could still be there in some respect. Coppélia doesn't need to dance. She doesn't even need to move her face. Coppélia is a doll. A beautiful, beautiful doll.
It's not the same as dancing… but it's a gesture I appreciate. Monsieur Demidov's fiancée passed not long ago and yet, instead of merely mourning he is helping me. A part of me feels guilty about it, but I can tell he enjoys the ███ ██ ████ █████ ███ █████ essence of my presence.
Entry 7
Master Saint-Léon found his Swanhilda. Her name is Giuseppina and she's 16. She's barely five months older than I am.
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fig 7.A
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I don't have much to say about it. At least nothing ███ █████ █████ █ productive.
The pearls are so visible now, but the room Monsieur Demidov prepared for me in his home is beautiful. It's quiet. I haven't seen Aunt Amelia in a week now.
Document #: 9630-01-C
Location and Date of Recovery: Documentation discovered tucked between the 7th and 8th entries of Document 9630-01.
Description: A print made for advertisement of Coppélia. A costumed Giuseppina Bozzacchi is depicted in third position with her hands in front of her clasping a bouquet of flowers while standing in front of vegetation and a small cottage. Text is written on the back side of the paper.
"She looks so ████ beautiful."
Entry 8
I told Monsieur Demidov about my ballet. He enjoyed the idea of it and called it a "healthy outlet for my frustration." But, he thinks it needs more to it. A story needs a beginning, middle, and end. It can't just be a bird dancing. I told him about my thoughts on it; that we watch birds not for drama but for their beauty. He told me that if he wanted to watch birds, he would just do that and that there's a reason he doesn't.
He's right, of course. It does need a beginning, middle, and end. It needs drama. I can't think much of it.
fig 8.A
Coppélia premiered last night. The whole time I sat in that chair holding that book I was just thinking of how to give my story the kind of intrigue that was happening outside my daydream all around me.
I imagined a young songbird, happy in her nest cared for by her mother and father only to be cast out and injured on the floor by a vicious beast that swallows her father whole.
She experiences horrors no baby bird ever should. Her wings are clipped, her body is eaten alive by fleas, and her voice is damaged beyond repair. She does things she hates just to survive. But, a kind man discovers her at her weakest and takes pity upon her. He keeps her in a golden birdcage overflowing with grain and fresh fruit. Everything a bird could ever want and protection from the horrors of the world outside. Though she cannot fly or sing, he cares for her and enjoys her nonetheless. The bird is saved by his kindness and she and him live a happy life.
Monsieur Demidov liked that story. I do too.
I think that everything is going to be fine.
Entry 9
Monsieur Demidov will be taking me to Russia in several days. A mannequin is going to take my place as Coppélia. It's only been a few weeks since the premiere and no one will notice. I doubt anyone even knew I was real to begin with.
Just sitting for my role has been too much time to think. That time was nice at first, but it grew weary quickly. I started worrying and remembering things I wish I hadn't.
It was his idea to leave Paris.
We'll be passing through several other cities on the way to a port. Cities I've never been to before. I'm excited, of course, but I'm more nervous. Monsieur Demidov assures me there's nothing to be concerned about. He will continue to send money to my aunt and mother. Things will go as planned.
Still, I'm melancholic about his home. It's a beautiful home and I've only just settled in.
fig 9.A
I've been drawing more, larger illustrations than the ones I have left in the margins. I've decorated the walls with these drawings. My room is practically papered in drawings of birds for my ballet.
I hope my drawings will still be here when I return. He assures me they will be, and has informed me I may leave anything too heavy here. There will be finer clothing for me in Moscow. He believes his late fiancée's clothing will fit me. I've been attached at the hip to Monsieur Demidov, following him each and every where. I don't understand half of what he says, I'll have to learn Russian eventually for I will be living in Russia, but he explains what he was saying when I ask. I wonder if I'll have to learn the etiquette of the elite as well. It's a strange thing to think about.
Before we leave, he's taking me to a party at a club. l'Archimédien. Supposedly it's for gentlemen with interests such as his. I've been assured that I would be welcomed in as his romantic partner. I've also been told the building is beautiful and the food served is delicious. I have no trouble imagining it now. Monsieur Demidov has never disappointed.
Still I don't much enjoy parties. They remind me too much of patrons. I don't like the smells and the people and the body heat raising the temperature of the room.
█████ █████ ████ █████ ██████ ████ █████ ███ █████ ██████ ███ █████ ████ ███ █████ █████ █████ █████ █████ █████ █████ ██████ █████ █ █████ ██████ █ █████ ██ █████ ██████ █████ █ █████ ███ █████ ████ █████ █████ █ █████ ████ Monsieur Demidov is a good man. He has no need for such things.
Yes, he █████ █████ █████ █████ █ ███ ████ █████ ██ █████ ██ █████ ██ █████ ██ wants things from me occasionally. But it's never been like it was with the other patrons. He isn't like them. I'm not even a dancer anymore. I'm more than that. I don't need their money. What he wants is only normal now. ████ █████ █████ ████ █████ █████ ████ █████ █████ He hasn't helped me only because he sees me as someone beneath him. Monsieur Demidov is a man of science, he does not believe in God or sin. There is nothing wrong with what he has done. He wants because he loves me. He truly loves me. As an equal.
What he does to me is nothing that lovers don't do to each other.
Entry 10
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fig 10.A
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fig 10.B
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The ending of the story as I had written it is wrong.
Yes, eventually the young bird is happy, full of life, and content. The man is going to show her the world, take her places she could never have gone with her damaged wings. Her plumage is brighter, her body is plump, and she loves the man more than anything in the world. He is happy to have helped her, too.
But, the man drowns her in armagnac at the end of it, exactly as he has with countless songbirds before her and will with countless more.
She's a delicacy.
My voice is hoarse now.
Entry 11
It wasn't that bad. It couldn't have been. There were so many people watching in that dining room. If it were as bad as it felt, someone would have stopped it.
Yet, I can't stop feeling like
when
that patron tossed a crumpled wad of banknotes at me
when he left me by the hospital
at only 12.
I can feel my body in a heap on the paving stones and
the cold air against my sore thighs and
smell the piss in the street
and the rain
and rot
and grime
and filth
and blood
and the hands of nurses on my body
touching
and touching
and touching
as they tried to stop the bleeding from a thousand piercing wounds.
I have no reason to feel this way. That isn't what happened to me last night. This has to be better than the favors after every performance, worrying about how I'll feed myself, paying for my aunt's apartment while she ridicules me, and sending money to Normandy.
If it weren't for him, I would still have nothing. He saved me. Whether or not he told me he'd done this to me is unimportant.
My hysteria only proves him right to not have told me from the start.
I will accompany Monsieur Demidov to Moscow.
Additional Recovery Notes: Document 9630-01 and various belongings of 14 SCP-9630-1 instances were originally located within the remains of the original l'Archimédien structure following a fire in 1901. These items had been boxed in a trunk and stored in the attic of the building during the onset of the Franco-Prussian war. The contents were presumably not inspected by the owner of the building, Dr. Svetozar Demidov4, and were instead donated, along with other surviving furniture, to the Paris Museum and Historical Society Archives.
The gentleman's club moved to a new building from 1901 to 1947 when word of Foundation investigation into SCP-9630 caused l'Archimédien to permanently cease operations in the then physical location. The network continues to operate and evade Foundation intervention to this day.
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The ink used and the locations these redactions are found within the text indicate that Éloïse Loiseau concealed this information herself.