Sic Transit Gloria Mundi
rating: +56+x

Site 122 automated optical recognition log of observations of emergences through SCP-1322

Timestamp: 08.24.2016 05:33.06.00803244Z
Reference: Incident 50738C
Emergence: 2300 (± 150) count of bullet-shaped metallic objects, typical mass 575g (± 100g) over period of 3.6 seconds, at velocities ranging from 80 m/s to 110 m/s.

Timestamp: 08.24.2016 05:33.09.20982120Z
Reference: Incident 50738D
Event: Explosion of at least 70% of Incident 50738C objects and emission of gas cloud. Automated analysis indicates 88.4% probability that Incident 50738C objects are miniaturized compressed-gas canisters. Miniaturized drones dispatched to collect samples of gas for analysis.

Timestamp: 08.24.2016 05:33.10.18232811Z
Reference: Incident 50738F
Emergence: 850 (± 70) metallic objects of various sizes, at velocities ranging from 10 m/s to 18 m/s.


Vijay Patel stared out of Location 9's porthole and drummed his fingers listlessly against the glass. There was nothing to see. He sipped water from a plastic bottle. It tasted faintly of urine. The filters in the recycling system were probably long past their useful life.

"Computer?" he mumbled.

After a few seconds, it responded. "Yes, Dr. Patel?" The system's software agent had been designed to distribute computing tasks over a large network of interconnected computer systems. But with only Location 9's local computer network available, the system ran far more slowly.

"Give me a status report of all living Foundation personnel."

A few seconds of awkward silence. "Sta-a-a-n-d-b-y-y-y", the computer chirped. Patel waited, and took another swig of piss-water. He glanced around to see whether there was another bottle of booze in the cabin. There wasn't. He had probably consumed the last whisky in the universe during his last bender. The silence stretched on. Occasionally there would be moments of subtle white noise, as if the speakers were connected to an open mike but no one was speaking. Finally the computer replied.

"You are the ranking Foundation personnel on this station. You are the only Foundation personnel on this station. No other Foundation facilities are responsive to communication at this time."

The same reply he had received to this question the last time he had asked it, and the time before that, and the time before that. It had been at least two weeks since… since the last time he had spoken to another human soul.

"Give me…. give me a status report of… a status report of all living human beings."

"Stand-and-and-and-by-y-y," it stuttered inhumanly. Patel pushed his hands against the wall and idly drifted to the other side of the cabin. In the low lunar gravity, he found it easy to succumb to laziness and move about the cabin by drifting rather than walking. But he forgot about momentum, and sprained his wrist when he tried to stop moving. "Fuck." He smiled wryly to himself and wondered whether the computer would interpret that as an instruction.

"The human population is estimated at five. Besides you, Dr. Patel, there are four crewmembers aboard the International Space Station."

Again, no change. And there was no way of contacting the ISS, even if he wanted to. After the incident, the station had drifted off in more or less a straight line, and was now somewhere in space on the wrong side of the moon.

"Have you completed your analysis of the data from the last Site 122 incident?"

"Yes, Dr. Patel. Woo-oo-oud you like to hear-ear-ear-ear my report?"

"Um, sure."

"Analysis indicates 72% probability that Incident 50738F objects were tuning forks which generated SCP-1012 event within the containment chamber."

Another long silence. Patel exhaled. Hartle had found a way to win the war, just like they had promised.

"Computer, estimate duration of, um, remaining availability of breathing gas, uh, based on current supplies and, uh, best case maintenance situation."

It kept him waiting for maybe an hour or so before replying. Twenty-two days, more or less. It would have been less than half that, had Garcia not already gone and euthanized himself with most of the known universe's remaining pain medication. Perhaps he ought to open the pod bay doors, release the air and get it over with quicker.

Patel looked through the porthole again, at the empty spot where the Earth, and everything else that he had ever cared about, were supposed to be. The sun was slipping below the western horizon. It was nothing like the sunsets back home- no spectacle of pinks, reds, oranges and purples in their contest against the blue sky, no decrescendo of twilight. Here, as the last limb of the solar disc dipped below a crater wall, a zebra-stripe pattern of bone-white moon dust contrasted with shadow, and an instant later, all was utterly black.

Time passed, silently.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License