Scp Au Thread

isthatanEcho

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THE AU SETTING

SCP NERD TERM GLOSSARY

"Static equilibrium is like a book perfectly balanced on a table, untouched and unmoving. In contrast, life is a vibrant dance, constantly adjusting and balancing itself through complex processes. Death, however, marks the end of this dynamic dance. It's like the book settling into a state of perfect stillness, where all motion ceases and equilibrium is reached.

In thermodynamics, the universe is always striving towards maximum entropy—a state of complete disorder. Life defies this tendency by consuming energy and maintaining order. When life ends, the system drifts back towards this state of equilibrium, merging seamlessly with its surroundings. This view suggests that death is not an abrupt end but a return to a natural, balanced state. Ancient Greeks and Buddhists grasped this concept, seeing death as a transition rather than a finality. They recognized that equilibrium—death—is the ultimate destination where all differences dissolve and all existence converges into a single, harmonious state.

Consider the universe as a vast, ever-changing expanse. Stars flicker and fade, galaxies drift apart, and cosmic forces push everything towards a state of maximum entropy. This backdrop of celestial grandeur is a constant reminder of our own existence's temporary defiance against the natural pull towards stillness.

Humanity, aware of its fleeting nature, has sought to resist this inevitable end. Cultures and faiths have painted death as an unwelcome intrusion into a world that should be eternal. For the Ancient Egyptians, death was a brief pause before entering an eternal afterlife, celebrated with elaborate rituals and mummification to ensure a seamless journey beyond. In the Abrahamic traditions, death is a hurdle to be overcome, with promises of resurrection and eternal existence with the divine.

But whether by happenstance or guided will, the truth is that creation itself is what defies the natural order. Not death.

These are powerful perspectives, but they remain interpretations rather than universal truths.

The true anomaly began with the cosmos itself, emerging from a primordial singularity—a hot, dense point that expanded into the complex universe we know today. This moment of creation was a magnificent upheaval of what was once perfect equilibrium. Life, with all its growth, reproduction, and energy consumption, is a dynamic counter to the universe's natural progression towards balance. It twists the natural order, creating temporary deviations from the stillness of maximum entropy.

Observing the universe, from the faint glow of cosmic microwave background radiation to the cold, silent stretches of space, reveals remnants of this primordial balance. Stars cool and die, galaxies drift apart, and the universe inexorably marches towards its natural state of equilibrium—an ultimate stillness.

In this perspective, life is a beautiful yet fleeting aberration in the grand scheme of existence. It is a momentary dance against the backdrop of cosmic stillness. And while this dance is indeed beautiful, it remains a transient departure from the ultimate balance.

Yes, it is beautiful. But it is still an aberration."


  • UNKNOWN SPEAKER IN ICSUT ON KTE-001 and PTE-002

Core Concept:
In 1984, an unnamed faction conducted experiments on an esoteric entity believed to be KTE-001, the embodiment of entropy (Malefica).

This group erroneously attributed humanity's suffering to this entity, driven by collective fears of heat death and a presumed antagonism toward the universe's existence.

Their initiative aimed to restore the world to a presumed natural state, under the belief that reality would then align with "what is" rather than "what is not." However, their assumptions proved flawed. The true natural state of the world leaned toward non-existence. KTE-001 manipulated this faction into destroying PTE-002 (Everwatcher/Árn), the embodiment of creation, leading to a universal amnesia regarding the concept of existence.

The SCP Foundation intervened, partially resetting the world to prevent a complete return to non-existence. Despite the partial revival of PTE-002, it is still dying, and KTE-001 harbored resentment toward humanity for its interference.

As the anomalous community grapples with the deteriorating reality, both the Foundation and the Global Occult Coalition are engaged in efforts to repair the expanding breaches in the Veil. Meanwhile, humanity remains largely unaware of these developments. The boundaries of knowledge are increasingly obscured, and with PTE-002 too frail to address the anomalies, the world is becoming increasingly corrupted.



Group of Interests:
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Patrimony

-=-=-

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-=-=-


Six months ago, Vaughn had awakened in Cornwall, disoriented and confused. The rugged cliffs and rolling fields had been a far cry from the sterile environment she was used to.

A month later, she had found herself inexplicably in Malta, surrounded by the sun-drenched ruins and azure waters, with no memory of her journey.

Two months after that? She had found herself in Area-08-C in Puerto Isabel, right in the heart of the Atlantic Ocean. The staff there had been baffled, unable to provide any explanation for her sudden arrival.

Now, it was Task Force to Task Force, Site to Site, country to country. The travel was relentless and disorienting.

Vaughn groaned, pressing her head against the seat's headrest. Exhausted, her thoughts wandered aimlessly as she sought some distraction from the monotony of her situation.

A fleeting memory from New York surfaced—muttered complaints about the Foundation being overrun with desk-thumping bureaucrats. The work, it was said, was supposed to be easier.

The captain grumbled under her breath. Easier, right.

The vehicle she was in felt as if it were designed by someone who had never experienced comfort. One would think, with all the influence and resources the Foundation wielded, they could afford something more spacious. She had voiced her grievances before, only to receive some bullshit about how a Range Rover would be conspicuous in a quaint Essex town.

Oh, of course, it didn't help that she was now hauling her own foot in an ice bucket.

She fumbled with the glove compartment, managing to pull the door down with an awkward twist. Carefully, she maneuvered her leg towards the driver's seat, adjusting the bucket to rest her bloodied, bandaged stump on the now elongated front section of the vehicle.

A queasy voice, trembling with barely-contained nausea, emerged from the seat beside her.

"...C-Captain, could you put your leg somewhere else?"

She turned her head sharply towards the driver's seat, flashing a sardonic grin at the visibly distressed looking operative. "Oh? Is my –bleeding stump of a leg– making you uncomfortable?"

"Look, I just keep staring at it, and I'm supposed to be driving."

Vaughn rolled her eyes. "If you weren't so fixated on the road signs, I'd report you as a security risk. Focus on driving; we're already running late."

The operative managed a weak grin. "Sixth time this week, Captain?"

Maddox pursed her lips in a thin line. "Shut the fuck up." Before moving her leg slightly more into the driving view.

"OKAY OKAY– I'm sorry," the operative said quickly, his face turning a shade paler as he tried to avert his gaze from the grotesque sight of Maddox's leg. "I didn't mean to—"

"Save it," Maddox interrupted, her voice sharp. "Just keep your eyes on the road. We've got enough problems without you adding to them."

The operative nodded vigorously, his hands gripping the steering wheel a bit too tightly. "Understood, Captain."

The vehicle jolted slightly as he adjusted his speed, the tires squealing a bit in the process. Maddox winced, though she quickly masked it with a scowl.

"Better," she said, her tone softening just a touch. "But seriously, if you're gonna complain, make sure it's about something useful."

"Just so you know," the operative began to seemingly follow orders immediately, "If we don't get there soon, they'll be changing the locks before we even get inside."

Maddox snorted. "Considering how things have been going, that wouldn't surprise me. I'm half expecting to find a 'Welcome to the Graveyard Shift' sign plastered on the door."

The operative chuckled nervously. "Maybe we can convince them to make it 'Welcome Back, Captain' instead."

Maddox glanced sideways, raising an eyebrow. "Only if you want to be the one to explain why we're late."

The operative swallowed hard. "Fair point."

A sudden ping from Maddox's wrist communicator interrupted the banter. She glanced at the screen, her expression instantly hardening. The noise was subtle, but the change in her demeanor was what gave it away.

Maddox's fingers moved swiftly, her eyes scanning the message. Her face remained impassive, but the tension in her posture was palpable. She typed a terse reply and shut down the communicator with a click that seemed too loud in the cramped space.


"Captain?"


Maddox's voice was clipped and devoid of her earlier humor. "Just… focus on the road."

The operative didn't need further prompting. He kept his eyes firmly on the road, the earlier discomfort and lightheartedness replaced by an uneasy silence.




-=-=-

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-=-=-



The lecture hall was quiet, as it should be.

Petrus shifted in his movements, pointing towards the array of symbols strewn across the board he had laid just before.

He stood at the front of the training hall, his demeanor as composed as ever.

The trainees sat in rapt attention as he delved into speech, within everything, at least, this was still in his control.

"This discipline, which delves into magical principles practically, stands apart from Physics," Margaunt said, his voice steady. "While Physics clings to Newton's laws, Thaumatology rests on its own pillars: the Law of Contagion and the Law of Similarity. Simplified, they translate to: 'The part influences the whole,' and 'Like produces like.' But here lies the enigma," he continued. "Physics tells us these principles are not infallible. Imagine slicing a watermelon and placing it under sunlight—its remaining flesh does not ripen faster. Similarly, a carved sheep, though it looks like the real thing, does nothing to improve your harvest. This brings us to the notion: 'Magic requires a gifted practitioner.' This was once accepted without much scrutiny, leaving the true nature of magical talent veiled."

A ping from his wrist communicator cut through the lecture, interrupting. His eyes flickered to the device.


Petrus glanced at the message on his wrist communicator, then closed it with a deliberate click.

His tone was usually methodical, a hallmark of his teaching style that kept students focused, trainees in line, and professionals attentive.

Control was crucial, especially in these times. It wasn't just a tool; He saw it as an ally to pragmatism. But now, he felt it wander.

"The 20th century brought upheaval," Margaunt said, his voice carrying a hint of strain. "Science began to seep into the realm of magic, altering perceptions and threatening the mystical fabric. Some practitioners withdrew, seeking to shield their craft from the encroachment of modernity. The breakthrough arrived in 1927 with Werner Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle," he continued, his calm demeanor starting to crack.

"It revealed that measuring a particle's velocity with precision clouds its position, suggesting that observation shapes reality. Thus, the principle of magic shifted to 'Observation influences Reality.' Certain individuals, through their perceptions, can reshape the world—"

He cut himself off abruptly, his words faltering. He stared at the trainees, their expressions a mix of confusion and curiosity. Petrus's face tightened, his eyes narrowing as he tried to steady himself. He didn't expect any of them to notice something was amiss— they rarely did.

"This session," His voice was now sharp and unyielding, "is concluded. Please gather your materials and leave."
The trainees exchanged bewildered looks as Margaunt turned and walked towards the door. His movements were deliberate, but there was a visible tension in his stride.

The silence was no longer comforting.



-=-=-



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-=-=-



Captain Brec'han wasn't worried about Maddox being late.

Why would he?


It had become almost routine—Maddox always showed up eventually, even if she was behind schedule. Compared to their last mission, where they had narrowly prevented a Hecatoncheires summoning, Maddox's lateness seemed almost trivial.

The meeting room buzzed with conversation, the air heavy with the scent of reheated food and industrial cleaner. Rhain flipped through his papers, occasionally glancing at his phone while around two dozen Mobile Task Force representatives waited, some clearly impatient.

Rhain made a show of shuffling his papers before addressing the room. "Captain Vaughn will be here in a few minutes."

In a rare burst of candor, one of the attendees responded, "I can't imagine how you deal with her."


Rhain's attention snapped to the speaker. Despite the unprofessionalism, he noted the meticulously dressed man—the computer chip insignia on his shoulder marked him from the Debuggers.

Rhain opened his mouth, but nothing came out. The non-existent reply, at least, was cut off by another voice. "Don't start this, Lomstedt. Captain Vaughn is with us for a reason. If her conduct truly compromised Beta-777, she would have been removed from duty long ago."

Rhain glanced at the speaker, Bethan Annywl. An agent of Eta-77, her specialty in religious artifacts was in a similar predicament to his own thaumaturgy—expanded out of necessity.

The detailed thought blissfully allowed him to be drafted out of his mind, but he was soon dragged back as another voice broke through. "I'm inclined to agree with Lomstedt," said a shorter figure, their eyes obscured by a black device. A different computer chip insignia—Rho-9, Cybersecurity. "There's a standard for a reason. How can we be certain she maintains professionalism or trustworthiness in any situation?"

"Of course you'd agree with Lomstedt, Duerr. You two do on everything, like barely moving from your desks," Bethan shot back, her tone sharp.

Duerr opened their mouth to retort, but a scruffy Egyptian man with violet eyes interjected, clearly trying to diffuse the tension. "Every meeting turns into this. Why do we always end up arguing?"

An Irish-accented voice chimed in dryly, "Because, Asim, if there's one thing Maddox taught us, it's that gossip and adrenaline are the best entertainment for MTF agents."

The room shifted into a mix of chuckles and groans. Rhain observed the scene with silence. The bickering had become a common backdrop to meetings, whenever this point of the conversation came up.

The sound of muffled voices and panicked footsteps then began to grow more audible. Heads started to turn in the meeting room. His gaze flicked to the door as he mentally braced for the inevitable disruption.

No need to worry.

That is simply Maddox announcing her arrival.

The door then barreled open, ending his thoughts. Vaughn stood there, brandishing both a bloodied stump and a bucket. If any heads hadn't turned when the noise started, they certainly had now. The room grew silent. Rhain felt the gaze of every single representative from each Mobile Task Force in the area slowly turn to him, their amusement or confusion slowly dwindling with the sudden change of demeanor in the room.

But, surprisingly, for Rhain, that wasn't what had his attention.

Rhain's gaze moved to study Maddox's face.


It was flat.

Shit.

Rhain felt his phone vibrate in his hand. A sigil of an arrow piercing a right hand stared back up at him.

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Rhain paused, a thought finally coming to him.

Maybe he was a little worried.

-=-=-
Rhain leaned against the cold wall near the white fluorescent light that signaled the end of the corridor and the entrance to the medical wing.

The hallway stretched out like a shadowy expanse, its silence only occasionally broken by the muted hum of medical equipment. Fluorescent lights flickered intermittently, casting erratic shadows on the sterile surfaces. The corridor's gloom was starkly contrasted by the rooms' warm, lambent glow, their light spilling over the walls.

Frosted glass lined the walls, obscuring the view of the rooms. Rhain's gaze settled on the room directly adjacent to him. Inside, a row of examination tables ran down the center, each draped in crisp white paper. Monitors blinked rhythmically, their display of vital signs casting a steady, almost hypnotic pulse. Shelves overflowed with supplies—bandages, vials, and the occasional mysterious jar. In one corner, a cabinet stood slightly ajar, revealing a tangled mess of IV lines and bags. The air was thick with the faint scent of antiseptic mingling with the metallic tang of machinery. A workstation was cluttered with tablets and screens slowly coming to life, a hastily scrawled sticky note reading: "Double-check dosages."

Foundation infirmaries always seemed to sprawl endlessly. Rhain had his suspicions about why.

Doctors and nurses moved with practiced urgency, their footsteps echoing softly on the linoleum floor. Quiet exchanges of words, nods, and the occasional reassuring smile passed among them—though the smiles seemed more mechanical than genuine. One of them reviewed a clipboard with a raised eyebrow before disappearing into one of the private examination rooms.

That room was likely Maddox's.

It wasn't surprising; despite her reputation, injuries were hardly unique to her. MTFs often encountered strange injuries, especially in times when normality was increasingly elusive.

Rhain wondered why Foundation doctors acted surprised at all.

What did surprise him was when the medical staff shut the door of the room he had been watching, only for an agent—whose appearance seemed almost sculpted from plastic—to step out. Following him was Maddox, her foot reattached.

The Foundation had skilled doctors, but this wasn't Site-120. Reattachment surgery took time. Rhain had sent a response to Site-01, suggesting a delay and providing an estimated recovery time.

He put two and two together.

The Alpha-1 nodded once at Rhain, before turning and proceeding down the hallway with a quiet, measured stride, as though each step was purposely spaced out.

Maddox glanced back at Rhain. "Let's go."

Rhain forced his expression into a mask of impassivity but couldn't suppress his sharp intake of breath as he walked. "What happened? How are you walking?"

Maddox kept her gaze forward, her lips slightly curled. "They authorized CLERIC on me."

Rhain's voice rose in disbelief. "What? But we never sent a request—"

Maddox cut him off sharply. "I know. But I have a guess about who did."

"I thought we decommissioned the bird except for emergencies. Anything radiating that much EVE is too unstable for us to use now, even for this." Rhain glanced down the corridor at the agent leading them.

"I don't need a lecture on protocol, Rhain. I'm aware of what's happening. Maybe someone thought I could handle it to save time."

Rhain fell silent, his agreement implicit in his quiet.

The sterile chill of the medbay receded as they followed the Alpha-1 toward the end of the hallway, which opened into the more utilitarian sections of the facility. This corridor was wider and more industrial in feel—matte gray walls interrupted only by doors and ventilation grates. The hum of medical equipment was replaced by the louder, more mechanical sounds of machinery and distant voices. The air here was cooler, tinged with the scent of oil and concrete rather than antiseptic.

The Alpha-1 led them to the junction leading to the vehicle pickup area—a vast space with high ceilings and large doors opening to the outside. Metal lockers lined the walls, and a small desk manned by a security guard stood nearby.

As they approached, the Alpha-1 opened the door to an armored van and helped Maddox and Rhain inside before taking his seat beside the driver.

They blinked, realizing there was already an occupant.

Petrus was leaning against the covered window of the van. He turned slightly. His demeanor was tranquil, almost to the point where it was slightly infuriating. He regarded Rhain and Maddox with an almost detached curiosity.

"Why did it take you so long?" Petrus asked, his tone measured and smooth.

Maddox settled into her seat and replied curtly, "I grew another foot."

Rhain interjected, frustration creeping into his voice, "She lost it in a translocation event."

Petrus's gaze remained steady, his expression unchanging. "Ah, the unpredictable nature of such events. We must make allowances."

The Alpha-1 glanced over at Rhain, Maddox, and Petrus, his voice cutting through the ambient noise. "We are proceeding to the designated meeting location. Please ensure your seatbelts are fastened and that you remain seated until we arrive."

As the van's engine roared to life, Rhain moved his eyes to the Alpha-1, who was now silently staring ahead.

He had an artificial look to them, as if they had been pressed from a mold. Their features were unnervingly smooth and symmetrical, with a surface sheen that suggested a lack of genuine texture or depth. The skin, pale and slightly glossy, seemed too uniform, giving off a synthetic quality that was both eerie and artificial. Their eyes, devoid of warmth or any hint of natural imperfection, were unsettlingly regular, like perfectly cut glass. Each movement was oddly precise and mechanical, as if guided by an invisible hand. Nothing about the man seemed organic.

Rhain leaned back, his gaze now shifting to the others. Petrus still leaned against the window, silently staring out of it, whilst Maddox had crossed her arms, slumped forward, an uneasy expression on her face. For once, an exasperated sigh left his mouth, as he moved a hand to his forehead, covering his eyes, which elicited a raised brow from the others.



He knew where they were going, but not why.




-=-=-




The scenery rolled by: gentle hills, trees, and the occasional farmhouse, all bathed in the dim, early light of dawn. The sun seemed to rise a bit early, a rare improvement. These days the sun rose a bit too early, or in the wrong direction.

Maddox could only guess they were somewhere in the North. It was difficult to tell. The landscape blurred together, and in what felt like ten minutes later, they had traveled 300 kilometers.

As the van turned off the main road, the surroundings began to shift subtly. The trees grew taller, their branches interlocking to form a canopy that blocked out most of the morning light. The path beneath them changed from smooth asphalt to a rough, gravelly track that crunched loudly under the van's tires. An unsettling quiet settled over the group as the vehicle advanced deeper into the woods.

Ahead, an imposing iron gate loomed, flanked by high stone walls covered in ivy. The gate creaked open slowly, revealing a narrow, winding road that seemed to twist and turn in impossible directions. The van continued forward, the world outside becoming increasingly disorienting. The trees appeared to shift and rearrange themselves, their shadows dancing in unnatural patterns. The road seemed to stretch and contract, making it difficult to gauge distance or direction.

Maddox glanced at Rhain, who seemed unfazed by the shifting scenery. Petrus remained calm, his gaze steady as he observed their surroundings with stoic interest.

The van took a sharp turn, and the forest abruptly gave way to a vast, open clearing. At the center stood a large house, its architecture a blend of old-world elegance and modern security. The structure was massive, with high, arched windows and thick stone walls. Towers rose from each corner, their peaks lost in the morning mist. The house seemed to pulse with a quiet, restrained light, something only the three of them would be able to sense.

They pulled up to the entrance, where a set of heavy oak doors awaited. The van came to a stop, and the Alpha-1 stepped out, opening the door for the three.

Or, he did. Because he was gone. Alongside the car and the driver.

Maddox blinked, yelling out an expletive and flinching backwards at the sudden disappearance, whipping her head around for a few moments.

Rhain, for his part, stood silent. He briefly contemplating the dying concept of existence for a few moments, before heaving himself towards the entrance, raising his hand, and curled his fingers to knock, but hesitated. Which, sensing the moment, Petrus strode forward, rapping his fingers against the door.

The sprawling door creaked, before slowly beginning to open.

The three sets of eyes all landed on a man, who, with some struggle, managed to shove the door open. He then stepped out, hands going into a neutral position. He was streaked with stubble that faded into a short beard, and covered with a patchwork of tattoos that matched his slicked back golden hair.

05-6's Factotum.

Maddox muttered his supposed name out loud. They all knew it.

"Kaldric."

The Factotum ignored her, most likely on purpose. "Dr. Margaunt, Captain Vaughn, Captain Brec'han. The overseer will see you now."

The three idled around in front of the door for a moment, but Maddox, with an exasperated gasp, stepped forward, pushing past Kaldric into the building.

They were wasting time, repeating this whole little ritual again.

Petrus and Rhain glanced at one another, as Kaldric stepped aside, motioning them to follow. They instead, followed Maddox.

The entrance room was an unsettling blend of shades of gray. Plush, high-backed chairs lined the walls, their dark leather surfaces gleaming under the soft glow of antique lamps. A richly patterned rug covered the floor, its intricate designs seeming to shift when glanced at from different angles.

At the center stood a sleek reception desk, an imposing piece of dark mahogany. Behind it sat Kaldric, somehow having moved from the door to behind the desk.

Soft classical music played in the background, its melody soothing yet oddly out of place. Magazines and books lay scattered on the tables, their covers worn but pristine, untouched by time.

Maddox paused, closing her eyes, a shimmer of violet light slowly became visible, hovering above them. She then opened them, only to be faced with a flashbang of sensed light.

Maddox shook her head and groaned, running a hand over her eyes, as the violet light vanished. Last time they were here, it was an old library. She didn't understand the sudden change to drab.



"Something about modernity to fit the current standard. Whatever that means."



The voice was soft, almost conversational. Maddox turned sharply to find O5-6 standing a few feet away, his appearance inconspicuous. He was dressed in an unassuming suit. His eyes were covered with a set of matching colored goggles. He blended so well into the drab surroundings that it was almost as if he had materialized from the grayness itself.

Maddox's hostility flared, but she forced herself to remain composed. "You keep changing things. It's disorienting."

O5-6 gave a small, knowing smile. "Disorientation can be a useful tool."

"How necessary was it to break us away when we were busy?"

O5-6's frowned, his eyes sharp and unreadable.

"Certain modifications were necessary to adapt to the evolving circumstances. You, of all people, should understand the need for flexibility."

Maddox clenched her jaw, but nodded, knowing it was futile to argue. At the very least, Petrus asked her next question. "Then why did you take the effort to bring us here?"

"Every decision was made with full consideration of the potential outcomes. All current conditions," he glanced at Maddox's reattached foot, "necessitated immediate action. In a bit of irony, that particular event is actually a good analogy for the entire situation I've brought you in here for."

Maddox bristled. "Which is. . . ?"

O5-6 ignored the response, simply turning away from the three. "The concept of use encompasses all things. It originated as an energy, born from the radiation of a dying entity's recovery. This energy had healing properties. However, human desperation led the Foundation to stifle its origins. What was the true burden? Was it the immense power of this ability, or the tragic soul who chose to wield it---by inflicting grievous harm on another, they hoped to reflect humanity's suffering, thereby perpetuating the cycle of pain to sustain the recovery?"

There was silence, and Maddox broke it. "Just for once. I want to actually know what you are talking about."

05-6 sighed, pausing. "I am getting there. Bit of an annoyance, but this reflection is poetic. You can cover your ears if it gets irritating."

"In this world, if enough people believe in something, it takes form. Legends become truth, and fears manifest into nightmarish realities."

Petrus interrupted this time. "Essophysics."

05-6 turned. "Yes, and no."

"This entity is both literal and figurative, a ghostly reflection of our collective psyche. Belief is the key—an intangible force that shapes reality, turning shadows into substance. Those who embrace change might find clarity, glimpsing the truth hidden within corruption. The world teeters on a fragile balance between what is and what might be."

"What does this represent? The Foundation? The world? Reality? These concepts are interconnected, not separate. I'll be straightforward with you three: The Foundation is splitting. People imagine a better future, and as they do, the likelihood of that future becoming reality increases. But now, the world forgets what was true. What we once thought of as 'existing' is fading. So the question remains. How do we know what's truth and what's not?"

"Simple. As long as belief endures, so too will that perspective. It's like a weight pressing down on those who seek to wield it. Yet, it also offers a strange motivation—a promise of transformation through acknowledgment, but only if people begin to believe."

05-6 gazed at the three, still staring. "This place still glows for you. You still hold one truth of this world. You are to use it."



". . And what? You expect us to do this job for you?"



05-6, expectantly, turned to Maddox.




"Consider it a gift of burden."

 
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Craiceann
Person of Interest File #3325/02

Legal Name: [REDACTED]

Aliases used: Brighid

Associated Groups of Interest: The Library

Reason for monitoring: PoI is a public danger understandable through their effects, without much information about the PoI, in specific. Monitoring is required for a better understanding of the public danger their activity has done.

Course of Action: Monitor reports of psychological abnormality or change in personalities along Newfoundland and west coast of Ireland, specifically regarding reports of a tall, bleeding woman with yellow eyes, and a psychologically induced obsession over want.

Priority: Medium

Status: Unknown, theorized to be active in Newfoundland.

Background Information: [REDACTED]

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