SCP Foundation

(The sound of roaring wind can be heard in the near distance. Poor audio quality dissolves the noise into hissing waves of undulating radio static.)

This thing on?

(Five seconds of silence.)

Good evening and/or morning. Could be fucking anything o'clock from how dark the sky is. All the smoke makes it hard to differentiate.

This is Dr. Laurence Michaud, former O5-11, speaking into a rickety hand-crank voice recorder because AA batteries are extinct or something. If I sound a little agitated, I assure you it's only because of all this homicidal frustration I'm feeling.

If you can still hear the whiny editorializing portions, consider that evidence that I've failed in my mission. Upon success, I have full intention of editing out all the four-letter words and mediocrity — that is, unless I make an affidavit to the effect of "keep it for the authenticity" and/or "keep it because I just don't care anymore."

Which brings us to the million-dollar question: what the fuck am I doing?

I got off the Naismith a few weeks ago when I caught wind that I was the only one who didn't vote themselves onto the comatose hippie continent. Not sure which part of the planet-wide sea I'm in, but the stars indicate it's the Northern Hemisphere, and the fact that I'm only just now starting to feel my balls again indicates that I'm at least subarctic.

My lifeboat made it within eyeshot of the SCPS Corncrake before snapping in half. Startled me into yet another heart attack — once you're immortal, it's just a full-body sneeze. Reached for my pistol, not that it would do much help. Tried to remember some of the old memetic kill-words from my days at Site-59, just in case UBU was allergic to any of 'em.

Sure enough, my assailant comes wriggling out of the ocean, all fleshy and pale. I brace myself for yet another little "playtime" session with UBU.

And would you believe it, it was only a narwhal. It was flopping about in a frenzy. Usually narwhals move so slow, but this thing must have been in the middle of a panic attack. Understandable, because as soon as I got a good look, there was a Danish stop sign impaled through its head. From all the rust, it had been there for centuries.

Like that, all my anger and fear turned to pity. Of course UBU had to have skewered this whale with a traffic sign — what else could have done it, or even wanted to do it?

This animal and I had a shared enemy. Fuck, back when there was still dry land, everyone had their little story about when they met UBU…

"Oh, UBU? My daughter hasn't spoken to me ever since the bastard shoved my whole body down her throat…"

"Didn't you see me in the news? UBU carried me around for a week, snacking on me every now and then — like I was his personal turkey leg. It was hell — but honestly? Part of me felt a little bummed out when he threw me away…"

"UBU ripped my legs off. Then he waited there for 'em to grow back, ripped 'em off again, rinse, repeat. By the time he got bored, I had twenty spare pairs of legs lyin' around…"

Yeah… I could do 'em all one better.

See, during the early days of the rampages, the second I was off duty, UBU impaled my wife on a broom handle. Then he ran up to me, giggling, tearing off my clothes — look, one silver lining is that I don't think this thing knows what sex is. But no, he just… threw me in a pool of sewage he opened in the street. Starts slathering me in gray water, getting it in all the nooks and crannies… then he rubbed my screaming wife all over me like a scrubbing brush.

I think he was even trying to whistle a little bathtub song while he was doing it.

He can't whistle for shit.

(Seven seconds of silence.)

…I used to be so raw from even the thought of it. But after a few centuries, we started passing these stories around like they're dirty jokes. I don't know what that says about the human psyche, but it's a thing that shouldn't be said.

The point is, all eight billion people and fuck-all-how-many animals on the Earth, and it's been UBU's duty to go up to every last one of us, one at a time, and ruin our day. At least a mass extinction wouldn't have made it that personal.

Which brings me to the SCPS Corncrake. Fatigue and hypothermia had me spend damn near two hours clambering up the side.

Long story short, the Corncrake is the last fully-functional Foundation containment site, built out of an old cargo barge. All the anomalies that made the "Ganymede list" — i.e. if everything went to hell, these would still be too dangerous to abandon if we could help it — they're cooped up on here, along with whatever else we could fit that seemed important enough.

If there's anything we haven't tried against SCP-UBU, it's in here…

Just wrapped up my initial exploration of the Corncrake. One silver lining is that I've got free reign of the place — in addition to my O5-11 ID card being a skeleton key for the automated systems, all the staff have predictably fucked off to New Zonkland.

Might as well give a brief summary of some of the objects I've found on my first run-through that haven't been smashed to shit…

• Ten Hominid Replicators from SCP-2000 in perfect working order. Damn, I thought these things went extinct after UBU trashed Yellowstone.
• A cage containing SCP-2845, or whatever's left of it. I had a peek. I thought the reports of UBU tying the Stag's neck in a knot were hyperbole. …I really wish they were. Not needing the rituals anymore is nice, at least.
• SCP-YEZ. "Crowd Control for the Practical Opportunist." Object class, Safe. Gives the reader the ability to spread out their consciousness into several living hosts and electronic devices. I think a few keters we had earlier boiled down to this stupid book later on.
• SCP-319. "A Curious Device." Object class, Keter. A failed attempt at a dimensional gateway. Currently space-locked in a vacuum chamber. If left unchecked, it could instantly destroy the universe.
• SCP-FNA. "Portable Warehouse." Object class, Safe. Exactly what it says on the tin; a portable door frame to a pocket dimension.
• SCP-001. "Last Ride of the Day." Object class, Thaumiel. An old Prometheus Labs prototype for a time machine. The last "Designated Liaison" joined a Zonk pile long ago.

And last, but not least…

• SCP-076.

The coffin was open, and Able himself was… bizarre.

Seeing him in this state was unthinkable. No bloodlust, no anger, nothing — all this time, he's been sitting on the edge of the ship, staring into the waves. I passed by him and nearly made a run for it. But as soon as he spots me, he gives me this half-hearted wave of greeting.

There's a very real chance I'm the first person in human history to see Able depressed. Looking back, I suppose it's only natural. The violence of UBU's immortal world holds no joy for Able — struggle without killing, torture without satisfaction, conflict without resolution.

All that hatred, and no one left to turn it toward but himself.

…fuck, now I'm half-tempted to put a blanket over the poor guy. It's cold out here.

It is with a heavy heart that I must announce the fact that I finally know what the fuck I'm doing.

I just finished loading all ten of the hominid replicators into SCP-FNA. Thank God the forklift was still in working order. But it was a bitch and a half fitting them through the door. I had better luck taking couches up the dorm stairs in my college years.

As for the Last Ride, I may have unsealed 001's sealed portion ahead of schedule. With any luck, the printout has dried out by now. Let's see here…

(The sound of wet papers being shuffled.)

SCP-001 is capable of temporally relocating to its relative position 15,000 years prior to activation. This temporal displacement is divergent/paradox-irrelevant; in other words, a separate timeline is created as a landing point. For example: if an occupant from timeline x were to murder their parents in utero in timeline y, the y iteration of the occupant would no longer exist; but the occupant themselves, being from x, would be unharmed.

When in a fully active state, SCP-001 deploys a five-meter-high telescopic antenna that functions as a Koloko wave energy sink. This will harness the energy required to temporally displace, and…

…blah, blah, blah — long story short, Koloko waves are only produced as a by-product of the Universe suddenly dying, with ZK-class reality failures producing the most.

Instead of going into the void, SCP-001 uses the void to slingshot it back in time for 15,000 years — much more than enough time to make sure whatever happened never happens.

So: here's my plan for the next steps of Project Beluga.

Step one, plant a few explosive charges around SCP-319.

Step two, pillage anything I could potentially use against SCP-UBU into SCP-FNA.

Step three, hop in the cockpit with SCP-FNA.

Step four, raise the Koloko sink.

And step five…

(Prolonged sigh.)

…detonate.

15,000 years of survivor's guilt is going to be the best-case scenario.

But this is the only way. Just gotta keep tellin' myself that everyone drifting off into the resulting ZK will be the lucky ones.

Only I will know about what's gonna happen in Greenland. And with this knowledge, I could either help the Foundation better prepare for what's coming — or figure something out for myself.

It's only fitting. UBU's the one who wanted to make the apocalypse so personal.

So, one-on-one it is.

Gentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up.

(Heavy breathing within an enclosed space.)

…this is Dr. Laurence Michaud.

I have just laid the final charges on critical points of SCP-319's vacuum chamber. Barring some ridiculous black swan at the last minute, the explosives will be enough to cause the chamber's walls to implode upon the device.

(He attempts to slow his breathing. He is unsuccessful.)

God forgive me.

(The clicking of keys.)

(A sudden loud crashing noise in the distance. Loose objects inside the cockpit such as crates and containers can be heard sliding toward the back.)

Michaud: (Whispering) No.

SCP-UBU: (Distant giggling.)

(Michaud pounds on the keys.)

Michaud: (Whispering) The sink! Lowerit. Lowerlowerlowerlowerlower comeoncomeoncomeon—

(SCP-076-2 yells in pain. The yelling fades into the upper distance. SCP-UBU laughs triumphantly.)

SCP-UBU: Bai baaai, Ay-Beh!

(Michaud, hyperventilating once again, grabs the detonator.)

Michaud: Not my fault. UBU forced me. Not my fault. UBU forced me. No choice. Not my fault. Not my—

SCP-UBU: Meeeescho!

Michaud: NO!

(Click.)