Introduction from The Civilisation of the Daevas
Since the dissolution of SCP Mobile Task Force Omega-7, I have embarked on a study of the culture of the Daevas civilisation spurred on by the lack of reliable sources on the subject.
This report represents an official culmination of an in-depth cultural study, and incorporates firsthand sources as well as various second- and third-hand historical documents from the era and beyond.
Included in this document are analyses of the language, practices, technologies, religion, structure, remnants and impact of the Daevas society.
Most sincere thanks to KTE-0706 for providing invaluable first-hand accounts, to Doctor Hornburg for translating, and to Lynn for allowing me to access the GOC archives.
Doctor James Caldmann
May 2, 2004
Clef had never thought he'd find a person that scared him, but it would appear the universe had decided to shit in that particular punch bowl with the man sitting across from him.
Said person was currently in the act of picking his nose.
"Ah…who are you again?" SCP-343 asked Clef.
"Clef." Clef replied.
The man's face broke into a wide grin, one that was accompanied by the table between them vanishing. "Ah, yes! Soprano Clef!"
Clef frowned. "Alto Clef."
The man vigorously nodded, an action that caused a hundred crickets to jump out of the walls and fly around the room. "Yes, yes, yes, Clef. I've been looking for you."
"For how long?" Clef asked.
The man's smile changed to a quizzical expression. "You know…I can't remember. Do you know, Daniel? How long have I been looking for Tenor?"
"Alto," Clef said. "My name is Alto Clef. We've been through this before. About twenty times, in fact. What is your name?"
343 just looked at Clef with a blank expression on his face, as both chairs in the room turned into poisonous snakes.
Clef sighed, then turned to the one-way glass that covered one side of the room. "This isn't going anywhere. Interview concluded."
From the Desk of Doctor Glass
It's been over ten years. At this point, I've almost given up hope for any recovery from Doctor Gerry.
It isn't so much that he's repressing his emotions so much as he just doesn't seem to have them anymore. At that point, or so it would appear, talk-based therapy is entirely out the window.
As for medication…what do you prescribe him? Anti-depressants? He doesn't have any negative emotions. Mood stabilizers? He doesn't have any moods to stabilize. Anti-psychotics? He's probably the sanest person in the Foundation right now.
I'm cancelling his therapy. He doesn't need it, nobody's getting anything useful out of it, and it's a waste of time best spent on anything else.
Effective May 3, 2004
Clef inwardly groaned when he saw Gerry walking over to his desk. Connor didn't do little things like talking or movement for pleasure; it was all business with him.
"Clef. Has your report on potential containment for SCP-343 been completed yet?"
Clef shook his head. "Not yet, Gerry. I've been busy trying to deal with the tracking stone."
Gears nodded. "Ah, I see. How is that going?"
"About as good as can be hoped for," Clef said. "We're continuously shipping the poor sap back and forth across the Pacific. He's not too happy about it, but it's not like anybody has much of a choice, here."
"I understand," Gears said. "When will the report be completed?"
Clef sighed. "I'll try to get it done tonight," he said. "I'm staying late, anyways."
"My thanks," Gears said. "I will be in my office as well. You may drop it off at any time." Without waiting for a reply, he turned around and walked out of the office.
Clef swiveled a little and watched Gears go. He always hated interactions with Gerry; it was like talking to a brick wall that expected things from you. Or, perhaps more appropriately, talking to a Japanese love pillow that occasionally voiced its opinions.
Clef always hated it when that happened. Fucking love pillows, always getting judgmental with you.
From The Civilisation of the Daevas
The religion of the Daevas bears extensive similarities to other primitive societies in the area, with the religion of the Malakans being the closest relative, and a close study of which will be studied in further pages.
However, this close relationship does not mean that the Daevas did not possess some oddities.
Of particular note are the "three goods," as 0706 referred to them, the highest goals continually chased after by the High Priesthood.
These "three goods" are difficult to translate; however, a close analogue may be found in the concepts of "collection," "imprisonment," and "guardianship."
These three "goods" were continually chased by the priests, as the fulfillment of the trinity was believed to ensure the safety and security of the society as a whole.
It should be noted here that 0706 was one of the servants used by these priests to fulfill these goals, as he acted in a capacity similar to that of an "enforcer" or "soldier" in today's society.
Clef found himself, at one in the morning, in front of Gears's door, the full report on the containment of 343 in his hand. There wasn't much; it basically boiled down to "give it what it wants and it won't kill us." Clef usually didn't like that in containment procedures; it made him get all antsy. But in this case, he didn't see much choice.
He wasn't sure where the report had came from. He didn't seem to have a conscious memory of writing it. He felt a vague sense that he should be worried about that.
He felt another vague sense that he should be worried about not being worried about that.
Putting his ear, or at least the place where his ear would be on the Cthulu plushie that was currently his head to the door, he could just make out the voice of Gears talking to someone. Or something. Clef didn't discriminate.
He considered, for a brief second, the concept of sensitive information being discussed in the office, of just walking away and waiting around for a little while, or even until tomorrow.
Then he remembered that it was one on the morning and ripped the handle clean off the door. He stared at it for one dull, sleep-deprived second, then decided to ignore it for the moment and open the door.
He noted with some distant trepidation that there appeared to be a sudden roaring in his ears. It was probably the vents.
Gears looked up from his computer. "Good, I see you got it finished."
He then saw his door, and the doorknob still clutched in Clef's hand, and his eyes widened by a fraction of a millimeter.
This was analogous to a normal human amputating and consuming his own arm in pure terror.
"Just…set the doorknob down on the table," Gears said. "I'll make sure to call Janitorial in the morning."
He paused for a second, then said "And just put the report down there as well."
Clef complied with both orders. "Sorry about your doorknob," he said.
"It is all right." Gears looked at him. "Are you in need of a doctor?"
Clef thought for a second. "No." he said, finally. "I think that would just end up getting rerouted back to me."
From the Desk of Doctor Glass
Clef's mental state has never been on stable footing, and the Insurgency has done nothing to improve it.
Since his break then, he has been reporting numerous symptoms of dissociative identity disorder: mood swings, insomnia, lack of control during certain times, difficulty remembering personal information, the whole nine yards.
While it's obvious the Ukulele persona has remained through the years, I believe the stresses of the SCP Foundation have caused it to reawaken with a vengeance in an attempt to fulfill its primary goals.
I've done a few things that may help; medication and mandatory therapy, mostly, but I'm out of my depth here. Soviet conditioning memetics weren't exactly known for their stability…or for their ease of removal.
Clef felt like doing something. Something new. Something fun. Something exciting. Something that would probably end in incarceration. Little sparks were floating around in his circulatory system, and they wanted to do something.
To oblige them, Clef suddenly jumped to his feet, causing the room to swim in and out of focus. This was enough to give Gears a second of pause, which, for Gears, may as well have been an eternity.
"Clef?" Gears said.
"Nice office you've got here, Gears," Clef said, rapidly pacing around, examining everything in the room with the same amount of maniac interest, and in varying degrees of focus.
"Nice desk," he said, upon encountering Gears's desk.
"Nice flowers," he said, upon encountering the artificial plant by the door. It was Gears's only compromise with the rest of humanity.
"Nice report," he said, upon encountering Gears's white binder of reports.
"Nice computer," he said, sitting down at the desk and opening up all of Gears's windows1.
"Nice video chat," he said, seeing the rather surprised collection of doctors and agents gathered on the screen.
"Nice religious text," he said, pulling out a large, black grimoire from the secret panel Gears had installed in the back of his desk. He didn't know it was there, by the way; he just decided to poke at that area of the desk.
"Nice Rite of Montauk," he said, scanning (not skimming) the pages, before slamming to a halt.
"Holy hell," he said, holding the book closer. "Where'd you get those illustrations?"
From The Civilisation of the Daevas
Heading the Daevas in religious, political, and military matters was a triumvirate of sorts of three "men of knowledge." These three governed the general direction of the Daevas, without getting involved in the smaller details or the day-to-day matters therein.
While this position was ostensibly hereditary, a spot on the triumvirate could be achieved by murdering one of the previous three. However, it was an unspoken rule of sorts that this sort of coup should only happen in times of hardship. This led to two things: first, a culture in which the triumvirate were pressured to succeed, since failure would bring on murder attempts; and second, a general paranoia within the triumvirate, which often led to the three disguising themselves and taking a lower position in order to avoid detection.
Below the triumvirate were the High Priests. These priests were concerned with the task of organizing the rest of the religious society, and had little to do in the day-to-day operations or practices concerned within. This post was merit-based, and was the highest a priest could rise through normal channels.
Below them were the priests proper. These were the ones who directed the rites as needed. The priests were divided into several subclasses, based on their relative experience and competence, but all did roughly the same activities.
Acting as the "enforcers" were former priests who had been disavowed, and who were endowed with inhuman strength, reflexes, loyalty, and a burning predisposition towards violence; 0706 being the prototypical enforcer. They defended the Daevas from foes both internal and external, and secured and protected religious artifacts from wherever they may have been.
Finally, there was the slave class. Taken from those defeated in battle, these slaves served an essential role in several rituals, acting as sacrifices and expendable muscle.
Clef was trying to do his best impersonation of an auctioneer. "So Gears, you formed a cult, huh?" he spat out. "Cult of Montauk, is that it? Trying to pass off your sick perversions on the rest of us, huh? Is this your idea of a good time? Didn't know you had a nasty side of you, huh?"
Clef began to fidget, picking up papers from Gears's desk and shaping them into little planes and swans and 173s. "Come on Gears, it's all an act, isn't it. Pretending to be all cold, all distant, all emotionless, it's all a lie." He waved the book in the vague direction of Gears's face. "I just didn't know you were going for the hard stuff first! I mean, if you had just bothered to ask me I would have-"
"It is not a sex cult," Gears said stiffly, in the manner of one wearing a look of haughty derision without actually wearing said look or, indeed, displaying emotion of any kind. "It is a Church."
"Of pedophilia? 'Cause I'm pretty sure that spot's already taken!"
Gears's expression managed to convey an even deeper irritation without actually managing to be irritated. "Our God," he said stiffly, "is the Broken one."
Clef burst out laughing, the kind of hysterical, wheezing, loping laughter that is usually found in either current or future sanatorium residents. The part of his brain that still gave a shit checked off another box marked "worry."
"B…Broken God…" he wheezed out. "Of all the things…all the things to choose…well tell me, Gears…if she's not your god…who is he? Or she? Who is your Broken God?"
Gears silently opened up his bible to the page "The Brain of the God."
Clef stared at it for a second, then redoubled his laughter. "The Clockworks?" he chortled. "The Clockworks? That's your god? What else do you worship? The Tickle Monster? The Old Man? This stapler?"
Here he picked up the stapler on Gears's desk for emphasis.
Gears gave the impression of a hurt wince. "No."
"Then why do you worship 231?" Clef asked. "What's she? The whore of the God? Guess even God's gotta have some fun every once in a while, huh, Gears? Is that it?"
"She," Gears said, very quietly, "is the Lie of the God."
More laughter from Clef.
From the Desk of Doctor Glass
Everything's going to hell in a handbasket. This place is getting to everyone who works here, myself included. The amount of tension and stress in this place…it rivals that of places like submarines and oil rigs.
Little things are getting blown to epic proportions. Today, Director Dodrige beat up an agent who forgot to replace the salt shaker on the correct rack in the mess. Lament was found punching a wall in one of the side corridors. He had broken most of the bones in his hand, and was well on his way to the full set. Elliot broke down in a meeting today, just couldn't do anything but sob.
Me? I'm trying to hang on. I try, on principle, to avoid medication as a first option, but it's easier said than done when you have an entire site breaking down at the same time.
I just don't know what to do. Maybe we could contact the GOC, have them bring in relief psychiatrists of some sort. I can't try to be the only person holding back the madhouse, not anymore.
"So…so…231 is a lie?" Clef choked out, desperately trying to repress his laughter, to little avail. "Then why do we torture a little girl? To fuel Bright's fetish collection, because I think that's something that's a little out of bounds, even for you guys. Unless Bright is all you guys, in which case I guess it's perfectly justified on your part, Doctor Bright, I mean, it's your porn, not my place to judge."
"Both of those assumptions are wrong. Because, while the girl is not the anomaly, the documentation for it certainly is."
"So what, a slip of paper tells us to Montauk a girl up, and we obey? 'Cause if so, get me some paper, because gee whiz, Doctor, do I have some demands!"
"Just because the girl is not the one causing the phenomena does not mean that the phenomena do not happen, Clef. Montauk is still a necessity. Just not for the same reasons."
Clef abruptly stopped chuckling. "What is Montauk, Gears? I've never been able to get a straight answer. Either nobody knows, or nobody wants to talk about it. It's like a goddamned conspiracy of silence, except everyone is silent by choice."
Gears motioned towards the Holy Book of the Broken God. "Page 576."
Clef blinked. "You put down Montauk…in your Bible?"
Gears shrugged. "I wanted to be thorough."
"All right then," Clef said, opening up the book and reading it. "I just hope it isn't the shit kind of smut. I can't stand shit smut, Gears, it makes me feel like the entire human race is going down the crapper."
Clef read about Montauk, what it entailed, what happened, what would continue to happen.
The rational part of his mind began screaming and recoiling in horror. The irrational part took this opportunity to take over.
"Gears," Ukulele said, closing the book, "Did you know your mother was a prostitute?"
From The Civilisation of the Daevas
For the most part, the lives of ordinary workers in the Daevite civilization was uneventful, and bore similarities to other societies of the time. Laborers tended the fields during the growing seasons, and dedicated their time to the building of cultural monuments during the winter months.
While this bears similarities to other comparative labor systems that would be utilized later in history (the mit'a system, etc.,) it was distinctive in its own right.
For instance, the monuments constructed did not serve as either public service systems (such as roads or irrigation channels) nor strictly religions idols; instead, they served as elaborate "holding temples" for the religious artifacts collected by the priests.
To facilitate these temples, workers were given one of two choices: either assist in the construction for a set number of days, or serve a set number of days as a guard in the temple.
Ukulele stood up, thought for a second, and calmly and rationally slammed a staple into Gears's head. There was no particular reason for it, he just felt like murder.
Gears recoiled, more out of surprise than anything else.
"Gears, you really are a cocksucking son of a bitch," Ukulele said, calmly stapling Gears's arms. "Hey, did you happen to catch the newest episode of The Medical Trio last night? I thought it was really good. Lots of character development. Wish they didn't end on a cliffhanger, though; I hate it when things end on cliffhangers. And plus-" here he stapled Gears's nose shut- "their old habit of using bombs to up the ante just doesn't work for me anymore. I mean, it was cool the first few times, but now it's just become kinda cliche. Still, good episode."
He abandoned the stapler and began beating Gears with the potted plant. Even though it was artificial, it had enough weight to cause serious damage.
"Why?" Gears gasped, choking on his own blood.
Ukulele thought for a second. "Every religion needs a martyr," he said finally. "Looks like you can earn that honor!"
"Plus," he added, "that really was shit smut."
Whistling to the tune of "The Drunken Sailor," he slammed the plant once, twice, thrice, into Gears's skull, smashing it in and painting the walls a garish red.
Not with blood, mind you, they just became a tacky red that Gears wouldn't be caught dead in, if only he was alive.
Ukulele hoisted the plant up on his shoulder and surveyed the scene, then began to laugh. Not laughter with the mere hints of insanity that existed before; full-on, madman laughter that echoed through the corridors.
That's the state he was in when they found him in the morning; in the middle of a bright red room with the body of a dead doctor at his feet and a madman's laugh on his lips.
They really didn't have much to say.
Announcement to all SCP Foundation members
It is with a heavy heart that I am to inform you that the Head Psychiatrist, Doctor Glass, was found dead in his room last night.
A formal investigation is ongoing, but at this state, it appears to be suicide.
Our hearts are with his friends and acquaintances during this difficult time. Doctor Glass was a great man, who touched the lives of hundreds during his time here at the SCP Foundation.
Although we are not members of the Foundation, we hope we can assist all of you in this time of need. Please, feel free to come by Psychiatric at any time. We'll be there, ready to help.
Doctor Angela Zimmerman
Head of Psychiatry; GOC; temporary head of Psychiatry; SCP Foundation