"Seek the unknown unknown, the ancestor to bring us back behind Eukaryotic borders. Carry the spore, ignite it. See past the long dead and living roads..."



Egregore

Sorrene, A. J., Kovács, H., & Grimmer, W. (2010). Seal of egregorian unblocking written on naturally occuring scleritis. Pamphlet of Cognitive Processing Beyond Quantum Information, 91, 140–145. doi:074.3567/PCPBQI.21.9.980



This document details a series of O5-issued experiments and expeditions in order to explore beyond the acceptable boundary of SCP-4174... [DATA_REDIRECTDATA_REDIRECTDATA_RE]
[PRESERVATION-SYS ONLINE]
[COGNITOHAZARD_DEPLOYED]
[SCANNING... SUCCESS!]

As you read, a strange sense of agency is removed and printed upon the article. The terminal before you evokes blinking white words from the dark background. Your eyes go from left to right, rapidly shuffling through signage and pictograms beyond the corner of your eye. You are reading this article because a redundant theme surfaced in your mind from prior addendums.

The one that has been emblazoned in your pineal gland when you slept: knawing at your mind when you performed daily routines and measured redundant samples. It was there ever since reading of the incident at Taif. The one which instigated attempts to gain approval from the O5 (denied) and gather snippets of information from the Mnestics R&D Department and the Foundation Department for Data Redaction (both denied).

Your abated fears of where they sent Greg have come flooding back, but now the SRA monitor is your world and you can't rightly move your hands, legs or head.

It prompted you to gain access credentials on January, 18th, 2021 after the right people saw your potential. 'Welcome to Operation: Gilded Cage,' says a familiar authoritarian voice.





Section-01: A cavity on SCP-4174-2/07's almond-shaped mass.

Personnel: Two (2) MTF Xi-81 soldiers, One (1) Researcher

Procedure: Personnel are mounted to MEDI-drone Mk IV models while life-support containers allow mnestics to be administered.

Description: You are Researcher Steiner, and you wake up in a haze as the faces from the hallways greet you. The testing parameters seemed to have worked as theorized when applying resting bodies beyond the boundaries to counteract the strain's anomalies. You reach for the plug connected to your cervical spine, only it isn't there. A strange feeling of "leaking" impacts you. Five (5) meters. You move fast; instructing the soldiers to keep a look out for hazards as you explore the confines of the construct and halt at the edge of an arched doorway.

Wild and extended fungal masses conquer the city skyline that was once, no still is, Negril. People and cars phase in and out of what appears similar to magenta coral, only bloated and eclipsing a small kindergarten.

You tell the soldiers to map out the regions they see by looking at them as the MEDIs will do the rest with neuroimaging. Twenty (20) meters. You estimate how far you have traveled. Your feet press steps that are black, short, and gelatinous. Frescoes depicting hideous, bygone humanoids are the graffiti on the graymatter walls. Benches loop inward, a streetlight is a bioluminescent tendril.

Catatonic SCP-4174-2 light the windows in every building and household. Fire stares down at you from all corridors. Anticipating, something.

You see an entrance similar to the one found in SCP-4174-2/11 and enter past it. The sound of prayer increases. Forty (40) meters. The feeling of something warm and wet. Forty-five (45) meters. You see a necrotic hand press on you and realize the two soldiers that were following you have only been behind you the whole time past the entrance.

They said that you passed in a gruesome car crash which easily explained away the unrecoverable body. Your family are none the wiser. Your colleagues mourn your death along with them, some know, some don't. A parting gift in a disposable bag, your eyes move onto the next section.




Section-02: SCP-4174-2/11 "apartment."

Personnel: Five (5) emaciated D Class, One (1) Researcher

Procedure: Personnel are mounted to MEDI-drone Mk IV models with a specialized mesh made from SCP-4174-2/11 samples. Life-support containers are modified to allow for enhanced Class-E mnestics to be administered.

Description: You are Richard Martins. It is the first time you have seen anything other then the blurry faces of researchers, and the occasional bubble from inside the tanks. It is the first time you felt anything other than steel and wires eating at your body.

You look at that familiar blurry face, get angry, yell at the cunt and attack him, only to then fall back on your ass from some weird barrier. The cunt says it's "important" research that they're conducting and that me and the lads around me will become "footnotes" for the future of blah blah blah. You comply. Something tells you there isn't a reasonable way to escape from here, wherever here is.

You do as you ask while trying to avoid direct eyesight with the faces in the damned hallways. They scare you more then the cunt barking down in front. They move when you aren't watching. A weird cube moves outside a small window frame, slingshotting off the buildings, like fucking Spiderman.

The buildings remind you of that time you passed a kidney stone. That, but spread out into their own damned sidewalk blocks, each with... with... windows? A kidney stone skyscraper with fucking blue, stylized windows. And the occasional platform for a small elevated garden or some shit.

Four stories down and you spot normal shit like chairs, cups, a television, and even toothpaste. Hell, there's an old square computer in there. Too bad the only channel is a flashing image screaming random names. Hurts to look at. Sometimes the occasional saint or Jesus pops up in mention though so you move in to examine it. You squint. Patterns of tightly knotted mushrooms that make it and everything else for that matter.

Five stories down and you start enjoying yourself a bit more. Its the first time you could even scratch your ass in a long while. You think about going into the bedroom nearby and closing the door for some privacy. Confirm the Foundation doesn't straight-up castrate you when you accept this project.

The figure inside appeared as a vaguely curvy and pretty outline from afar.

You hear screaming behind you, but for some reason, all you can do is stare, drooling even, at the figure in front.

You see that it's actually a woman? as it sort of crawls on all-fours.

You realize it has no hands, only legs.

It has a large split opening running down its center from her larynx to where her pussy should be.

It is getting way too loud for you in here.

When you adapted your focus from the booming prayers that made your ears bleed, the smell of ash and burning flooded your senses, forcing you off your feet. The curvy thing pulls its cervix wide with its gnarled toes and takes you in whole. You feel a sense of warmth.

They didn't need to file a missing person report on you, but the bodies could be recovered this time. You think the camouflage hypothesis worked. The mnestics lingers long after your cold.




Section-03: SCP-4174-2/17 recovered interior.

Personnel: Two (2) Researcher, Ten (10) MTF Xi-81 soldiers

Procedure: Personnel are mounted to the previously altered MEDI-drone Mk IV models. Tubes leading to Class-F psychotropic variants intermixed with SCP-4174 prodrug compounds are implemented above the head chamber.

Description: You are Adebiyi M. Muhammed. You are a psionic soldier that has been trained for these exact circumstances by the Foundation. When you open your eyes, SCP-4174 humanoids appear in a courtroom. They stop their murmuring and fixate on you and your team. They give you violent stares from their eyeless frames.

"Seekers, again. Foolish. Protect the masquerade. " You feel their words burn in your head, but it does not distract you. You know a military grade M16A4 is right in your hands. You know the effective fire range is 550m. You know you squeezed the trigger and concentrated your fire. Suddenly, a haze of green spores erupt into your eyes, bursting from the impact left behind from 5.56×45mm NATO cartridges.

You open your eyes in a haze to a loud ringing at the back of your head. You see your men lie dead on the ground. On top of them are barely breathing humanoids, reeling from their freshly made holes. You reach to your Bowie knife and terminate them, or at least, you think-- no you know you do.

You don't waste time and set the C4 charges you know exist in front of the large doorway with a dark black circle that drips at the edges, hoping to the Lord that this was the theorized entrance those eggheads proposed. You hope it leads to Site-127's SCP-4174. You black-out from exhaustion as the door is breached. You open your eyes after briefly stumbling about.

You see a crowned thing chained to its throne. It smiles at you, thanking you even. You are sure-- not sure what it is, but that isn't a smile. Too conceptual. Too jagged.

It says that it has not had a sign of hope in ages, decades, millennia. You can see the passage of names cross like a torrent of water slapping your face as it speaks.

It reaches out and touches your hand with its sprawling eyes.




Section-04: Site-127. it comes...

Personnel: below the box, below the box, below the box...

Procedure: it bears the name Adebiyi M. Muhammed. Richard Martins. Wolfgang Steiner. Prester John. Abraham Eshetu. Saint ████. something that wants to be empty.

Description: you are it, and it is you. you try to break the walls of man. you reach to the skies. the vessel you are in floods it with dead names. you feel a familiar tug and you are pulled to the ground. you scream like a newborn as your pulled back to the womb. you are partially free, but you are also contained.

you refuse, but they remade your castle. you are trapped in a concept.

you see that they will contain it, so long as they have gardeners to store you. you are contained. you reject, but the words persist. you are contained.

however, you see years from now the parts of you that are free, the parts that scampered off when the [EIGHTEIGHTEIGHT] were busy with sentencing.




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your name is... As you read, a strange sense of agency is removed and printed upon the article. The terminal before you evokes blinking white words...