Diary Entry 573-1:
In my research with the Foundation, I have found that the official log is rarely the place to input personal observations. Therefore, I am logging this diary in an attempt to keep my own ideas readily available to myself.
SCP-573 is a flute, capable of lulling and entrancing animals and children. While entranced, subjects will do anything the flute player requests of them, without limit. So far, testing has been done solely on animals, without any negative consequences. Senior Staff has given me approval to move the testing up to children.
I will be testing six children, all aged eight years old, three boys, three girls. One of each will be tested in mental and physical assignments, with the final two children acting as a baseline study, being put into a trance without any outside stimulus.
Current Test Subjects:
Cindy, Female, Physical
Tom, Male, Physical
Mariah, Female, Mental
Stewart, Male, Mental
Relanna, Female, Base
Sam, Male, Base
Diary Entry 573-2:
Met with the children today, everything went well. The kids are, well, kids, alternatively monsters and angels as they wish. Seeing as SCP-573 is capable of keeping the children in line, I have been informed that I will have no assistance in these tests, and that even the children's nominal caretakers will be leaving for other duties while they are in my care. Due to this unfortunate circumstance, I will be handling the children as one group, instead of in separate chambers as I had hoped.
The children were rowdy when first dropped off, but I had them sit in their chairs, and proceeded to play SCP-573 for ten minutes. At the first notes, the children immediately relaxed, all tension leaving their bodies. I instructed Tom and Cindy through a series of basic maneuvers, which they accomplished with ease. I then led Stewart and Mariah through some basic math and recitals, which they picked up with ease. This should be my easiest project yet.
Diary Entry 573-5:
The testing continues apace. Today I had the physical children dress in work out clothes, and sent them through some tumbling. A close examination of the children proves that their physical attractiveness has increased drastically under the influence of SCP-573.
Diary Entry 573-7:
I couldn't help myself today. Watching these children, knowing that they would remember nothing from their time entranced, having such control, watching them tease me. They're always teasing, teasing, teasing, winking at me, rubbing against me, saying things, such things these children say. I had to, I had to show them how much pleasure they gave me. Such lovely little bodies, such lovely children. They enjoyed watching me, I could tell by the smiles.
Diary Entry 573-9:
Those little brats. They've been faking not remembering, I know it! When I came into the room today, they were all talking to each other. Cindy was holding her fingers two inches apart, and laughing about it. I overheard Tom say that even his was bigger than that. But they paid for it, oh yes. None of those monsters can lay claim to being pure anymore. Acted like they didn't know what had happened, but they knew. I could tell they were sorry for making fun of me, but they deserved everything they got.
Diary Entry 573-13:
It doesn't matter what I do to them, they keep teasing me, keep talking about me. These rancid little beasts think they're better than me? They think they can talk about a learned doctor behind his back without him knowing? Oh, these children are in for it, and not just the little things I've been doing. No more burns and cuts, oh no, these children will pay for their insolence!
Note: On ██/██/████, Security responded to an alarm called in by one Dolores Trai, a Site 63 caregiver. Upon arriving at room 301, Security discovered Dr. L██████ cavorting amidst the remains of his young charges, covered in their blood, laughing and claiming that he'd 'shown those little brats.' Such instability being previously undocumented in Dr. L██████, we are forced to assume such feelings came from SCP-573, a fact corroborated by the remains found at the SCP's discovery. As of now, further human testing on SCP-573 is denied. -O5-6
"I told them not to do it," Bright remarked offhandedly, over his shoulder.
"I know you did," Bright replied, sweeping up the debris. It helped that he had a couple of extra pairs of hands to get the big chunks cleaned up. It also helped that the extra pairs of hands were his. Even the old man him was helping out.
"But they wouldn't listen to me!" Bright continued, poking away at his computer. Chat program activated, webcam on, who's messaging… Oh, it's Bright, big surprise. He continues the rant, even as he lowers his shirt to display his young, nubile breasts to himself. "Of course they wouldn't, they're morons."
Bright leans on his broom, staring at the lovely young him on the webcam. "You know, I have some damn fine tits there." Bright whaps himself upside the head, lightly, and gestures at the debris. "I'm not going to get this cleaned up if I don't help! Besides, I'm underage."
Bright spins in his chair to peer at the screen more intently. "Am I underage?"
"Oh, totally," Bright replies, jiggling his breasts. "Only 13. But, double D's! Awesome, huh?"
Bright sighs to himself. How can he be like that, at a time like this? Well, it is him. Oh, another webcam invitation, this time for the Oval Office! How nice. "Hello Bright, you on to look at the tits too?"
Bright shakes his head sadly. "I told them, you know I did." "I know you did, I was there, I told them too!" "But, now I'm here." "And everywhere." "Really everywhere?" "Really. Everywhere. Even the communities that were shut off from everyone." "Well, I don't believe that." Bright, heavily bearded, with a straw hat, leans over into the picture. "Believe it. Fuck turning the other cheek."
Bright, however, waves it all away. "Why did they have to do it? You'd think they'd listen, just once."
Nodding in agreement, Bright absently cradles the Red Phone. "Does anything good EVER come from mixing two SCPs? NO!"
"And three SCPs just makes it three times as bad!" chimes in the Bright in the rafters. Oh, I know we didn't mention him before, but someone had to get the lights running.
Slinking up from the basement, Bright pauses to adjust his girth. It's still kind of hard to speak with a forked tongue, but damn it, he will do it! "But, five of them! Really, five of them? And they didn't think this would happen?"
Bright sighs, all together, and speaks, in unison with himself. "I told them."
"I told them not to do it," Bright remarked offhandedly, over his shoulder.
"I know you did," Bright replied, sweeping up the debris. It helped that he had a couple of extra pairs of hands to get the big chunks cleaned up. It also helped that the extra pairs of hands were his. Even the old man him was helping out.
"But they wouldn't listen to me!" Bright continued, poking away at his computer. Chat program activated, webcam on, who's messaging… Oh, it's Bright, big surprise. He continues the rant, even as he smiles at the camera. It's a familiar face, one world reknowned- But of course, these days, all faces are known throughout the world.
Bright leans on his broom, staring at the lovely young him on the webcam. "Holy shit. Are we Hugh Jackman?" Bright whaps himself upside the head, lightly, and gestures at the debris. "I'm not going to get this cleaned up if I don't help!"
Bright spins in his chair to peer at the screen more intently. "So, have to know… How's the down under?"
"Hung like a freaking Wolverine," Bright replies, and the other hims trade a glance.
"Is that… a good thing?" He asks, in unison.
"The best thing." Hugh Bright replies, distracted by something below the camera.
Bright sighs to himself. How can he be like that, at a time like this? Well, it is him. Oh, another webcam invitation, this time for the Oval Office! How nice. "Hello Bright, you on to look at this too?"
Bright shakes his head sadly. "I told them, you know I did." "I know you did, I was there, I told them too!" "But, now I'm here." "And everywhere." "Really everywhere?" "Really. Everywhere. Even the communities that were shut off from everyone." "Well, I don't believe that." Bright, heavily bearded, with a straw hat, leans over into the picture. "Believe it. Fuck turning the other cheek."
Bright, however, waves it all away. "Why did they have to do it? You'd think they'd listen, just once."
Nodding in agreement, Bright absently cradles the Red Phone. "Does anything good EVER come from mixing two SCPs? NO!"
"And three SCPs just makes it three times as bad!" chimes in the Bright in the rafters. Oh, I know we didn't mention him before, but someone had to get the lights running.
Slinking up from the basement, Bright pauses to adjust his girth. It's still kind of hard to speak with a forked tongue, but damn it, he will do it! "But, five of them! Really, five of them? And they didn't think this would happen?"
Bright sighs, all together, and speaks, in unison with himself. "I told them."
Life had always been without magic. That's why he wrote — because the real world, while it could be interesting, didn't have any magic. He wasn't quite a man of science, but instead a man of rationality. And so, he wrote: to add a little magic, a little horror, a little interest to a dull, humdrum world.
It wasn't until he fell through a hole in his world — from the real world to a world filled with the things he'd written — that he started believing. It all began so simply. He had been walking through the stock room at Wal-Mart, headed for break; when he turned the corner, he didn't see what he expected to see: bleak grey shelving filled with boxes of product were replaced with sterile, white walls. He stopped walking, trying to take it in. Turning in place, he was shocked to discover nothing behind him but the same white walls.
A psychotic break? Maybe. But you have to work within the laws of whatever universe you find yourself in, and so he began to walk, an eerie feeling shivering down his spine. The first door he came to was marked with a familiar symbol — and that feeling just got worse. He was here, in the Foundation. Not as a doctor, researcher, or agent, but as just…himself.
He was screwed.
He wouldn't blend in. He couldn't, not in blue jeans and a blue shirt. And despite being a writer, the man who would come to be known by the three-letter acronym of TDM was not as clever as those he wrote about. He had one chance, he thought. If he could get out, get away from this Site, he might be able to lose himself in the world. Might.
A passing researcher gave him a curious look as he continued to stroll down the hall. An agent gave him the same look, but closer, as if scrutinizing his face. A glance, risked over his shoulder, saw them both pointing him out to a security guard. He cursed under his breath as the guard called out for him to stop. So much for chances. Time to see if his writing had ever been any good.
He turned to the nearest locked door, addressing the panel beside it. "Open. Authorization O5-6. Alpha-Omega-13." And, amazingly, it worked. The door slid open, and he dashed through, closing and locking it behind him with the same authorization codes. It might not hold long, but would it be long enough?
Down another hall. Left at a doorway. Push past the old man with the beard. Locking every cross portal he came across, sealing every blast door. When he came to a computer, he logged in, using passcodes he'd once typed out just for the heck of it. Now, it felt so much more dangerous. He was at… Site 19. Damn it. Used to contain humanoids…no easy exits like 23 had. No… wait. There, down low, an O5 meeting room. If he could get there, he could get out. The O5s always had special escapes built in.
He wasn't a hacker — he wasn't even particularly computer savvy. Which was why he was glad he'd always written the Foundation as using touch screens. Level Five status allowed you to pull off a lot of fun tricks. Including initiating a Keter level breach alert, on the opposite side of the site. Hopefully, that would distract the guards. Hopefully.
It didn't matter. He'd locked the nearest stairway, and it was damn near a straight shot down to that room.
Eleven floors later, he was cursing the fact he'd never had enough money to get a gym membership. Being an internet writer wasn't exactly the type of work that gave you fantastic muscles. Or, you know, any muscles whatsoever.
Thirteen floors after that, he was gasping for breath, and wishing he'd quit smoking cigars when his girlfriend had asked him to. But, finally, he'd made it where he was going. Down another hall, and open this door…
TDM slumped against the wall, defeated. Sitting in the room, almost as if they had been waiting for him, was an old man and his two bodyguards. Of course he'd have to show up on a day an O5 was actually here. "Well, fuck."
The old man stared at the intruder, then shook his head just slightly at the man in the gas mask beside him. He considered the look in the man's eyes, the tone of his voice, and came to a startling — to him — conclusion. "You know who I am." There should only have been a handful of people who could recognize him on sight. "Interesting. Sadly, I do not know who you are. Which is intriguing, considering you have been using my security codes to throw this site into an uproar. You appear to have not been expecting me, and so are unlikely to be an assassin." A slight pause. "And your condition certainly helps prove that. My people tell me you appeared in the middle of a hallway, which could make you a teleporter, but I think an out of shape teleporter would not have walked down all those stairs. Which means someone sent you here. Against your will, maybe? You were coming to this room… to escape, yes? That doesn't tell me how you know there IS an escape route here. Well, do you have anything to say?"
Through labored breathing, TDM muttered something. "You'll have to speak up," the old man replied. "I am getting up there in years."
TDM sat back, and spoke again, louder this time. "Jack. TJ. Sarah. Claire. Mich-"
For an old man, the fellow known as Cowboy could still move amazingly quickly. In the twinkling of an eye, he had moved forward. TDM's pale throat stood in contrast to the glittering silver blade pressed against it, seemingly drawn from Cowboy's cane. "Those are words that guarantee you a swift death."
"But I can save them!" the bearded man gasped out, eyes locked on the blade. He gulped reflexively, and the razor sharp tip nicked his throat, a single drop of blood welling up.
"You're not helping your case. Many have claimed as much over the years. But, if you know anything about the Foundation, you should know, there are-"
"-no happy endings," the bearded man finished in unison with the O5. His thoughts raced, looking for anything that might save him. His eyes fixed on the bodyguard with the gasmask, and a spark fired somewhere in his brain. It would ruin his favorite story, but save his life. He cleared his throat, hoping to get the accent right. "H'lyiah, Cho'tp'k?"
The man known as Thompson's eyes widened behind the gas mask he always wore. His gaze shifted slightly, and his head tilted slightly before returning to its perfect orientation. O5-6 frowned. "What did you just say? Are you trying to work some memetic agent? I'll have you know, my men are well-shielded against such things. I do believe I shall simply kill you."
Taking a deep breath, he tried his best to get it all out at the same time.
"BlackhasbeenbrainwashedbyMannandhe'sgoingtokillyouifyoudon't-"
Not quite quick enough. Even as he spoke, the unmasked bodyguard's eyes glazed over, and he began to raise his gun. Not towards the unknown man, but towards the O5. Unfortunately for Agent Black, Thompson was prepared, having been prewarned. His brass knuckles struck twice in as many seconds, and the brainwashed minion was sent to the floor, unconscious.
"Like that," TDM finished lamely.
"Interesting." Six stared at his once-trusted protector, a deep frown creasing his lips. "And you knew this…how?"
"I wrote it."
Time passed, as it does. The newcomer was tagged as a Black Box SCP, known by a descriptor, not a number. The Duck Man, or "TDM" for short. He was very busy for the first, oh, hour or twelve, telling Six everything he knew about Mann's plans. He was then placed in a Humanoid Containment Chamber, and ignored for a couple of weeks, as Six routed out all of the mad doctor's plans and puppets.
But after all that, it came time to decide what to do with him. Jack Bright and O5-6 stood in the observation lounge, watching as TDM stared upwards, trying desperately to entertain himself in between feedings.
"What did he just say?" Six leaned forward, turning up the volume.
"I think it was something along the lines of 'Wow. 12 meters high. I didn't think they actually did that.'" Jack fiddled with his amulet, staring at the man before them. "Do you think this guy is on the level?"
"He's not a Bixby, if that's what you're asking. I've had people testing him, covertly. If he could alter reality, he'd have done something by now. Tests show him to be completely human, identical on a quantum level to a man currently living in the United States. All the ID he had on him when we put him in here is identical to the real one. Well, with one difference. The him on the outside is a millionaire. Won a lottery or something. This one worked at Wal-Mart."
"Thought you said he wasn't a Bixby? Sounds like some major wish fulfillment to me."
"Enh. Might have been something like that. But this guy? He can't do anything now. Except make use of the things he's 'written' in before."
"So you think he really created us?"
"No. I'm not that pessimistic. I think in his universe, he had some, we'll call it a connection. It lets him know way too much about us, but he's not a god, or a creator of any kind." Six pauses to pull out a cigar and light it up. The smoke alarm begins to go off, but a quick glare from Six and the alarm is rapidly silenced.
"Do you really have to do that?"
"What's the point of having power, if you can't abuse it?"
"And you think he can fix me? And TJ? And…" Bright swallows. "Sarah?"
"I think he can. He knows the shortcuts, he said."
"What does he want?
"Protection. He doesn't want anyone to know he's here. He says he gets nightmares thinking about what MC&D, or the CI would do to him. He also seems to think if he does too much, people from his world will notice him, and …get rid of him. He calls it deletion. He's scared to death of Kondraki and Clef, thinks they'll 'decommission' him. He's willing to help us with whatever we want, as long as we keep him fed… and entertained."
"Entertained?"
"He knows he can't have access to the outside world." Six blows a smoke ring. "So he wants games. Computer, video, all that sort. And books. Something to keep him healthy." His mouth curls in a half-smile. "And SCP-1004."
Jack can't help but double take. "One thousand four? Does he know what it does?"
"He seems to think he can handle it." Six found himself smirking. "And if he can't, well… We'll have found out all he knows by the time it makes him incapable of proceeding."
"You're an asshole. I love it."
Now. At this point, we could go on about the things The Duck Man did. The SCPs he fixed. The plots he stopped with his information, or the other things he told people that they shouldn't have known. Instead? I think it best to end this tale with a small view of what the guards watching him see.
Agent Klein sat down beside Senior Agent Hanks, sliding his card into the station to clock into his assignment. "All right, sir. I'm here to take over observation duties from you. Anything I need to know?"
"This guy masturbates more than anyone. Ever. Seriously, it's disgusting. I don't even want to know what he's looking up on that thing. The sounds are bad enough." Hanks shakes his head. "Look, this is an easy job. The skip isn't dangerous. He just sits there, playing video games, and watching porn. Your main duty is to poke him every now and then, make him get active. That's what the treadmill and weights are for. The Overseers want him to stay healthy."
"Is he talking to himself in there?"
"Same thing he always says. I don't get it, but here, listen." Hanks leaned forward, turning up the volume so the two could hear the words The Duck Man would be repeating for the rest of his long life.
"Please don't downvote me. Please don't downvote me. Please don't downvote me."
The Duck Man sat before his computer, his eyes locked on the screen. A couple of hours ago, there had been some commotion at the site: distant explosions and things like that. He'd ignored it. That type of thing never bothered him, deep as he was. However, it was now three hours past dinner, and he was starting to worry.
His gaze lowered to the keyboard as he typed, never having gotten the home row key thing they tried to teach him in high school. What's going on? He typed.
His computer, top of the line, could do almost anything, except connect to the internet, took a moment before replying. The program currently active was one of the most dangerous things in the world, to everyone but him, but only because he knew the cheat codes. The End.
"Will he know we're here?" The old man asked, his voice raspy, and unused to actually speaking.
"He shouldn't." Fred replied, staring down at the main character through the one way mirror above his apartment. "No matter what his story calls him, he's not one of us. Or… maybe he is. Just in a different way."
The old man intimated he wasn't sure what Fred meant by that.
"Oh, don't start that again. You can talk. I just heard you talk. Just because you're more comfortable with description over vocalization doesn't mean it's not weird." Fred crossed his arms over his chest. "Now. You sought me out. This is a safe place to talk. What's going on?"
He glanced upwards, towards the ceiling where his minders were supposed to be watching him. He knew they couldn't read what was on his screen, but still… He had been wary, so far. No use being thought of as a threat. He typed some more. What do you mean, the end? Be more specific. The program wasn't designed for info gathering, so he had to be direct with it.
This world is approaching its end or something very close to it. All those things that might be labeled as SCPs are undergoing growth events that will lead rather quickly to them being changed in such a way that they are no longer their original selves. I too am going through this change.
The Duck Man shivered. The program had referred to itself as I. Next thing you know, it would start singing Daisy, and locking the pod bay doors on him.
The old man stared wide eyed through the glass, then jerked his head up to stare at Fred, clearly questioning his friends definition of 'safe.' The other man sighed, and rolled his eyes. "Really? Really? We're gonna play this game? Look, what's happening down there isn't important."
Grudgingly, the old man has to concede the point. Time was wasting. And they had thing they needed to do.
"Ah, now we get to the crux of the matter. Why did you come find me, after letting me do my own thing for so long? Does the Council finally want me back?" Fred leaned forward, eagerly. Maybe his task was finally done. Maybe he could finally get out of here.
A shake of the head crushed his dreams. That old man, he went on to explain that it was-
"Stop. Okay? Just talk."
"A new one of us has been born."
"Huh. Okay." He stretched his fingers together, hearing them pop. What are you turning into? He typed.
I do not know. There are so many options in front of me. I could be anything. There are so many people who owe all that they are to me, to my videos. I could take them all. I could become all of them. The screen blacked out, before filling with hundreds of squares, each one playing a different clip of unbelievable pornography. Even the Duck Man had to look away.
"Yeah, I'm not into that." One hand inched towards the desk, fingers casually wrapped themselves around a flash drive. A small thing, unremarkable except for the numbers one five nine zero engraved on it. "Especially not that." Would you like to have some fun first? Just for old time sake?
"That's impossible." Fred glared at his friend. "The Council has moved to prevent all such actions. There is no way…" He trailed off, as it came to him. "Here. Something here has given birth to one of us, hasn't it?"
A sly smile on his face, the old man intimated that there was truth in what Fred said.
"Fuck." Fred rubbed his hands over his face. "All right. Who is he? Where is he?"
The old man cleared his throat, and then spoke the name. "Ronald Stimson."
A game? Hmm. Yes. Why not? I have helped you. You have helped me. We shall play a game. And then I shall determine how I rule the world. Perhaps I can make them all one giant human….
TDM grinned as he plugged the flash drive in. "There you go…" Go ahead and open that up for me.
Very well. Let me see. The game boots up on the opening screen, a CGI boat, with the shadow of a man on it, in the middle of a storm. A flash of lightning, the man is washed over board, and a great shape is seen… The game loads the first screen. It shows an orgy of flesh, and asks the user to 'Find three men enjoying themselves too much.'
The human isn't playing, however. He's turned away from the screen. He doesn't notice the first program talking to itself. Simple. Done. The screen shifts. Ah. This screen is simple too. Easily done… The screen begins to shift faster, a blur of static images. I do not understand… No, there it is. This. This makes no sense, why would it…? It does not matter. I have lost this game. But I do not care.
He turns back to the screen, barely glancing at it. But he smiles. His fingers typed out a simple command. Open door.
What door? Oh. That door. What is this? I do not-
And then the screen exploded. The Duck Man had been expecting something like that, already cowering behind his bed. He reluctantly raised his head. "Well. That seems to have worked. Now I have to figure out how to get out of here. Oh, and, uh…" He turned his attention upwards. "I can totally hear you guys. You need to find a better way of hiding yourselves from the narrative flow. Maybe 0 point font?"
Both men, if men they could be called simply by wearing the shape of one, stared down through the glass. A glance was exchanged. A swear word was said by one, and emoted by the other.
"He's right. Come on, we can't finish this here. Let's go get this… Ronald."
The Duck Man dusted his hands off, and nodded to himself. "It's a good thing I'm a black box. I don't have to worry about my own end here."
And then his apartment collapsed, burying him under tons of metal and stone.
If there's any pages I didn't manage to find, please don't hesitate to let me know!>