Document recovered from a Parallel Universe

Link to article: Document recovered from a Parallel Universe.

/* HEADER */
 :root{
   --header-title: "The Avian Division";
   --header-subtitle: "Until we return to The Nest";
   --lgurl: url(https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/bird/avdiv_white.png);
}

 div#container-wrap{
     background-image: url(https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/local--files/bird/avdiv_body_bg.png);
}

 #header h1 a::before,
 #header h2::before{
     font-family: "Verdana", sans-serif;
}

 #page-title{
     color: hsl(45, 98%, 28%);
}

/* PAGE RATING */
 .page-rate-widget-box .rate-points{
     background: hsl(45, 89%, 40%) !important;
     border: 1px solid hsl(45, 89%, 40%);
}

 .page-rate-widget-box .rateup,
 .page-rate-widget-box .ratedown{
     background: hsl(45, 100%, 97%);
     border-color: hsl(45, 89%, 40%);
}

 .page-rate-widget-box .cancel{
     background: hsl(45, 89%, 40%);
     border: 1px solid hsl(45, 89%, 40%);
}

 .page-rate-widget-box .rateup a,
 .page-rate-widget-box .ratedown a{
     color: hsl(45, 89%, 40%);
}

 .page-rate-widget-box .cancel a{
     color: hsl(45, 76%, 67%);
}

 .page-rate-widget-box .rateup a:hover,
 .page-rate-widget-box .ratedown a:hover{
     background: hsl(45, 89%, 40%);
}

 .page-rate-widget-box .cancel a:hover{
     color: hsl(45, 100%, 97%);
     background: hsl(45, 89%, 40%);
}

/* DIV BLOCKS */
 .series-nav{
     background:
        linear-gradient(
          to bottom right,
          hsla(0, 0%, 100%, 1),
          hsla(45, 100%, 55%, .5));
}

```
display: none
```

```
series-nav
```

[[div style="display: none"]]
[[include :scp-wiki:theme:flopstyle]]
[[/div]]
[[include :scp-wiki:component:centered-header-sigma-9]]

[[module CSS]]
/* HEADER */
 :root{
   --header-title: "The Avian Division";
   --header-subtitle: "Until we return to The Nest";
   --lgurl: url(https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/bird/avdiv_white.png);
}

 div#container-wrap{
     background-image: url(https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/local--files/bird/avdiv_body_bg.png);
}

 #header h1 a::before,
 #header h2::before{
     font-family: "Verdana", sans-serif;
}

 #page-title{
     color: hsl(45, 98%, 28%);
}

/* PAGE RATING */
 .page-rate-widget-box .rate-points{
     background: hsl(45, 89%, 40%) !important;
     border: 1px solid hsl(45, 89%, 40%);
}

 .page-rate-widget-box .rateup,
 .page-rate-widget-box .ratedown{
     background: hsl(45, 100%, 97%);
     border-color: hsl(45, 89%, 40%);
}

 .page-rate-widget-box .cancel{
     background: hsl(45, 89%, 40%);
     border: 1px solid hsl(45, 89%, 40%);
}

 .page-rate-widget-box .rateup a,
 .page-rate-widget-box .ratedown a{
     color: hsl(45, 89%, 40%);
}

 .page-rate-widget-box .cancel a{
     color: hsl(45, 76%, 67%);
}

 .page-rate-widget-box .rateup a:hover,
 .page-rate-widget-box .ratedown a:hover{
     background: hsl(45, 89%, 40%);
}

 .page-rate-widget-box .cancel a:hover{
     color: hsl(45, 100%, 97%);
     background: hsl(45, 89%, 40%);
}

/* DIV BLOCKS */
 .series-nav{
     background:
        linear-gradient(
          to bottom right,
          hsla(0, 0%, 100%, 1),
          hsla(45, 100%, 55%, .5));
}
[[/module]]

[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]

> Document was recovered from universe E-██████ shortly before total entropic collapse. Context of document is believed to be the final stages of an unexpectedly aborted [[[SCP-4800]]] event. Greater context is unknown; E-██████ was not the subject of study prior to this incident.

----

I woke up after a night of thin sleep to my mechanical alarm, realizing that today was the day! I flung over my bed covers, hastily got myself dressed, and burst out of my house. It was the day of the Birdsville Bake-Off, and I was going to win it!

As I was sprinting over to the Bake-Off Building, I passed by an old lady who told me "good luck, Emily!" I didn’t quite know her, so I simply waved back as I continued my run.

Eventually, exhausted, I came to the door. The plaque above the door read “Birdsville Bake-Off Building” in gray, curvy font. Anticipation filled my feathers as I pushed open the heavy door and entered the confectionary contest.

I found myself behind a kitchen counter, an array of assorted baking ingredients in front of me: flour, salt, eggs... I looked around at my competitors— my friends— who thought that they were winning this bake sale from me. They were wrong!

I looked up to the neon clock attached to the ceiling that would time us. The contest wasn’t based around time, but it was a factor that the judges used to score the Bake-Off. The timer read: "-0:20." The contest was starting in 20 seconds!

I heard an announcer who I couldn’t see shout over the nervousness in the room told us that it was time to begin. I’d had the recipe for my gramma’s famous muffins memorized down to the fiber. Two cups of flour, three eggs, five pinches of cinnamon. Mix until you can’t see the flakes of cinnamon anymore. Pour into a muffin pan, and cook for twenty minutes. 

As I prepared my special dish, I looked around at the other pastries being baked. There were cookies, cakes, bread, donuts, and bagels all being molded from dough. I was the only one making muffins. I knew that it would give me an edge.

Before I could press the "Timer" button on the oven, I heard an ear-curdling scream. I turned around to see one of the bakers, a green-feathered women with a shocked look on her face, in the midst of a mental breakdown.

"I— I— I—" she said, stuttering over her words, "—never imagined it would be over this quickly. Look out the window!" Then she collapsed.

I suddenly became acutely aware of a darkness visible through the windows. I stopped what I was doing and pressed my beak against one, peering into the darkness. It was morning when I arrived; why was it night now? It wasn’t night, though. There were no stars, not even any visible land, just pure dark. It was like I could reach out to touch it.

I turned around and saw a pelican-girl, who finished her cookies early and was taking them to the judging room. Her arms and upper body were shivering, as if she was struggling against molasses. As she opened the door, I saw the blackness emanating from behind, the same as the windows. I heard her scream as she walked straight into the blackness.

It has been five hours. Three other girls, participating in the Bake-Off, finished their dishes: a cake, a plate of brownies, and a plate chocolate-chip cookies that looked quite delicious. All three got up, possessed to bring their dishes into the blackness to die.

My muffins— my great, delicious muffins— have been in the oven for five hours. For that time, I had been in fetal position next to the oven, panicking. One of the other bakers— a penguin girl wearing a baseball cap— had spent the time mixing, complaining about how her arm was sore. Everyone else was locked in various stages of the process. We couldn’t idle. We just couldn’t; it felt //wrong//.

It has been one day. The blackness outside hasn’t changed, and my muffins have probably disintegrated inside of the oven. I forced myself to stand up and walk over to the front door. The outside is the blackness too. I can’t escape.

Suddenly, the blackness began advancing. Everybody started panicking. However, once I ran back over to my oven, it stopped. It looks like it gets worse when I’m not actively baking.

It has been two days. I started to feel pain in my stomach. The penguin girl— her name is Karen— called it "hunger." She told me that we baked to cure the hunger. Was it not just a contest?

It has been three days. Mia, the parrot girl, shoved some of her cake mix into her mouth and said it cured the hunger. The others did the same. I tried to put the burnt remains of the muffins into my mouth, but the pan burned my hand. I had to use the raw flour to do this. 

I was thinking, and I realized that I have no memory from beyond when I woke up three days ago. At least, I think it’s been three days. What happened before that?

I have asked the other bakers, and they do not have a better memory than I do. Karen asked me about my gramma, the one who made the muffin recipe, and I actually couldn’t say anything. This is getting really weird.

It has been five days. Mia actually stopped frosting her cookies, screamed, and jumped into the darkness. Karen said that she wanted to do that as well, and I would be lying if I said I didn’t consider it.

The green-feathered girl is beginning to rot. It seems so obvious, now that I think about it. This began with the bake sale, and I think it will end with it too. I wonder if this could’ve been avoided. Karen says that it was pre-determined. I asked her what I meant, and she said that we had no choice in the matter.

Now, it has been seven days. We have all agreed to walk into the blackness that surrounds us now. Goodbye.

----

> It is of note that E-██████ was inhabited by non-anomalous humans. References to avian features may be related to previous "Migration" class scenarios. Further involvement inconclusive.

----
[[div class="series-nav"]]
<< [[[SCP-4248]]] | [[[bird|Team Bird Hub]]] | [[[Three Feet Under I]]] >>
[[/div]]

[[include more-by:notgull]]

[[include :scp-wiki:component:license-box]]
[!-- N/A (No Images)  --]
[[include :scp-wiki:component:license-box-end]]

Document recovered from a Parallel Universe

Module Styles

Inline Styles

Includes

CSS Classes

Page Source