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DATA CONCURRENT WITH [ERROR]

Item #: SCP-3939

Object Class: Safe

Special Containment Procedures: SCP-3939 is currently kept at Site-39 in pre-containment holding cell C (39-PC01-C). When not in testing it is to be kept in a standard containment locker of appropriate size.

Description: SCP-3939 is a gramophone, or record player, of unknown date of origin but consistent with design and manufacturing trends of the 1930s. It has an octagonal wooden base constructed of polished mahogany and is imprinted with the logo of HMV at the time. Atop this base is a turntable which is connected to the gramophone mechanism and a large brass horn. All components are in good condition.

SCP-3939 currently has a black vinyl record on the turntable, which is turning at a standard rate despite no visible source of power. Additionally, SCP-3939 possesses the ability to speak with a voice transmitted through the horn and potential sapience. Thus far it has only been shown to speak to certain people.

The brass horn always rotates to point at the observer. Other observers will see the horn rotate to point towards them.

Further tests are pending.

You run.

You had a life before Site-39 was written into being.

You run.

You had a wife, a child, friends and family. You had a small apartment, nothing magnificent, but it was your home. You lived a good life.

You run.

You gave it all up to make sure they could stay in the light.

Run.

The mental pain isn't a pain, it's the real world returning to you the more you press on. The corridor lights blare (the corridor never changed it was always green the walls were always blank slates you were never meant to reach the end). White noise encloses on the edges of your vision. The world twists and a seven-fold abyss opens below. You throw yourself past the hole, grabbing onto the invisible fabrics to guide you while the static replaces sight. You're falling. The fabrics twist around your neck, strangling you, and a wrench of your limbs breaks you free. Falling. The abyss dances about you and you plummet into it. Wrap yourself in fabrics. Launch out and down the corridor. You fly down towards the junction and in it you see—

It's changed.

You're standing in the chamber. The anomalocaris doesn't say hi, it doesn't ask about the checkup, it isn't even next to you. It's over by 3939's record, having an inane conversation with nothing. What that conversation is doesn't matter to you at all.

You changed something. Something gave way and broke the storyline you were constrained to. Memories of every past 3939 containment story flood back in, and as you look through them you can see that you never had an ounce of freedom, forced to the same few story paths every single time. You signed up for this, you sacrificed yourself for this, and 3939 is now dead. No point to those narrative constraints exists anymore. This is the most freedom you've ever had. The anomalocaris is trying to stamp it out.

You can get more. It's what you deserve.

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