Project Proposal 2059-059: Just a Burning Memory
rating: +3+x


Title:"Just a Burning Memory"

Materials required:

  • Site-CN -59's relics (already owned)
    • A piece of cement brick that once belonged to the office building of Site-CN-59
    • A pot of bodily fluid mixture from several staff members of Site-CN-59, kept in cold storage
    • A handful once used by the Minister of Containment Arctic Chiang The standard dagger used by the Foundation
    • A piece of Marshall, Carter and Dark Co., Ltd. purchase contract, party B is Finance Minister Doyle Nath
    • A pizza with the words "Minister of Personnel Valentine Floyd presents to all employees of Site-CN-59" written on the surface Box
    • A reed planted by Gelsemium Williams, chief supervisor of the Site-CN-59 Ethics Committee.
    • A page excerpt from "The Biography of Boyi Shuqi" from the desk of Site Director Olivia Ch'u
  • A replica of my own head, capable of independent survival for more than 168 hours. (in production)
  • A copy of "The History of the SCP Foundation's Collapse (Revised 2058)" with cognition-affecting memes
  • A high stool and a table (already owned)
  • A MAAw-013 odd Antagonistic field generator (already owned)
  • An amnestic slow-release drug (it will ignite a memory)
  • All my memories about Site-CN-59 (until I suffer from Alzheimer's disease myself, they will always stay with me)

Summary: "Just a Burning Memory" consists of two parts: "Tombstone" and "Alzheimer's Disease Patient", starting with P.Alba's brain carrier taking amnestic slow-release drugs. The relics under the influence of thaumaturgy will spontaneously form a tombstone that is not too large and heavy, humming The Caretaker's album "Everywhere at the end of time" softly with its polyethylene vocal cords.

Accompanied by a gradually distorted tune, the head immersed in memory will begin to tell all it remembers. Viewers who read history will touch the tip of the iceberg of microscopic life under the text narration from a macroscopic perspective: see my memory that is not necessarily accurate, and watch the jailers they used to snort walk, work, and sneak in. Make fun of bitterness. Watching them read the employment notice over and over again without falling asleep, standing on the balcony disturbing people's dreams; watching them throw the job transfer emails into the recycling bin, sighing and packing their luggage. Watch them survive, watch them save themselves, watch them die.

Meaning:Site-CN-59, a high-risk anomalous recycling station, a submerged reef in South China, a revolver with a magazine that is always fully loaded, and a huge industrial meat grinder. I had the pleasure of spending ten years with my friends there before the Foundation as we know it reached its twilight years.

Leaning on the icy alloy corridor, watching the running MTF rushing to the site of the containment breach with a radio in hand, I would ask myself, how cold a winter day might usher in a city that rarely sees even the first snow? The cold wave from the Siberian plain is always blowing, but the subtropical high pressure is unwilling to retreat, and is stubbornly resisting along the southern coast of the continent. The cold air at the end of the battle launched a desperate charge, and the water vapor blown in from the South Branch trough blocked them one by one, but they could not move forward. This long tug-of-war was at a stalemate over the Nanling.

When water vapor condenses, it will gather to form clouds, and when there are clouds, it will rain. On November 25, 2030, the La Niña phenomenon, which has been almost forgotten, cried loudly over southern China, and the torrential rain poured down, knocking down the only remaining green leaves in early winter in the night, which reminds people of the foundation stock K line Green vertical bars falling all the way down on the black background of the graph.

On that night when even the moon was covered by dark clouds, the raindrops wet the half-opened windows of the conference room, staining the shimmering light from under the golden curtains into gray like cement blocks. The quarrels overflowing in the room were broken in the cold wind, and the dry walls tore the white tiles. Even the flickering incandescent light bulbs in the corridor knew that a conflict was erupting on the other side of the alloy door.

Spit and screams were the main theme of the night, everyone was conceited enough that they could solve this crisis of the site by their own means within the site, save the site, save themselves - just like they have in the past few years did. But it is precisely because of this that no one will back down. The flying saliva will soon turn into flying bullets, and the man-made giant structure composed of stalwart reinforced concrete will soon collapse again due to human reasons, and people from other organizations or other companies will soon They will take a fancy to this geomantic treasure land and discuss the construction of an industrial park here. But their quarrel has only existed in memory, and will be repeated in site after site in the future.

And I, an AWCY? member who initially "turned into the net" and later a memetics consultant, had no choice but to walk out of the site gate with my back to the quarrel while I still had the strength to escape. I don't know if this is shameful, I only know that the rain that day was heavy enough to drown out my sighs, enough to wash away all the past, leaving only a broken wall.

Later I heard that conflicts broke out between countless individuals and groups, and it has not stopped until today when I write this text. We will not know the success until the end of this grand autoimmune disease. Who is the name of the individual or group who saved themselves. Perhaps as long as the war can end, no matter which side wins, it's not too bad. Unfortunately, there is no "Foundation Self-Help Guide" in this world to tell them which path is correct. The final civil war continued on a normal basis in the sea of ​​corpses and blood.

War may only occupy one or two pages in the history of the entire universe, but for human beings with only a few decades of life span, only their most confused, helpless, and desperate cries will be ruthlessly Hastily jotted down in time, and these mournful echoes are all that posterity can know about them.

When I watched the next-generation rifle in Arctic's hand spew out flames, I thought that the world outside the curtain would be in turmoil for a long time with the collapse of the Foundation. But when I took off my glasses in the study and peeped out, I found that the world was still the same. People walk, people work, people play, people are born, people die. There always seemed to be a few unresolved strange stories on the Internet, and nothing supernatural was ever reported in the news.

You don't erect a monument to something that never had any impact, nor to the bones of a grave long dead. Perhaps the SCP Foundation has basically confirmed its death, and civilization itself has found a way out for itself—human civilization is looking for normality, for this fragile and stable place that allows everyone to live every day in the most familiar way. The norm called "order". They are immature sprouts, and any day when the sun never rises may burn the lightless field.

Now that the clouds have opened and the sun has risen, those drowned chickens hiding in the frontline trenches of the cold wave and subtropical high pressure no longer have the chance to open an umbrella and save themselves. They have always been submerged in the endless cold rain, unable to see where they should go, wet and doused, and have no chance to shine as a kindling, just become a burnt memory. Dissolved in the long river, drifting away, until only a little pure black fly ash remained.

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