Link to article: Requiem Aeternam: The Death Of O5-1.
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[[module css]] .footnotes-footer { display:none; } [[/module]] [[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] [[=]] + **ONE** [[/=]] Pope Francis, Bishop of Rome, Vicar of Jesus Christ, Successor of the Prince of the Apostles, Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church, Patriarch of the West, Primate of Italy, Metropolitan Archibishop of the Roman Province, Sovereign of the Vatican City State, Servant of the Servants of God, O5-1 of the SCP Foundation... ...was represented //in absentia// by Cardinal Ottaviano Calvalcanti, Acting O5-1 of the SCP Foundation. He opens the letter, giving him the news that he knew was a long time coming now: His Holiness has passed. He's gone to the Heavens, to where the Lord will keep him. Many have had their faith conflicted from their work in this organization, but the Cardinal had not lost the faith that got him this far. He runs his fingers across his rosary, feeling each bead and briefly considering the appropriate mystery for each. He had a duty to uphold before the next conclave. He takes the signet ring from his hand, pressing down on the wax of the 12 letters. With each press of his ring, the wax seals are also emblazoned with a minor anomalous effect. A code to confirm the identity of the sender. "TO RESTORE ALL THINGS IN CHRIST," it says, flooding through his mind as he looks at the letters. After confirming it works, he flips the letters back over and writes a number on each. **2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13.** The Cardinal gathers the letters, passing them off to the assistant to the office of O5-1. They would be distributed, through various secure channels, to each of the rest of the Council. Now that his duty is done, the Cardinal sits upon the chair in his office, clicking a pen. His Holiness was gone, and he might not be the one to help run the Foundation. He pauses for a minute, before beginning to write to the one who might succeed him. He writes advice. Things he wishes that he knew then. [[=]] + **TWO** [[/=]] Doctor Sophia Light, Director of Site-19, Founding Member of the Department of Tactical Theology, Level Five Clearance, Theologian, O5-2... ...was stuck in a meeting with Assistant Director Tilda Moose and Administrative Head Dr. Gears. Admittedly, her mind was not entirely on the meeting. She had to perform her duties, however, and so she made her way through it. She was, during the entire meeting, thinking about the oddest feeling that she had. The feeling of something being wrong, that she could not place. Everything had been right in the morning, and there were no breaches, no failures or lapses in containment... so why did it all feel so wrong to her? As Gears prattled on about the logistics of containing a new anomaly that they were planning to bring into the Medium Security Block, she eyed the door to her office. She stared just past Gears' head, giving the illusion of paying him all of her heed. A moment later, the Director's personal assistant walks through the door, and Sophia's attention is instantly drawn to them. She orders Moose and Gears out and reaches out her hand for the letter her liaison to the rest of the Council possesses. As she takes it, she realizes she was more preoccupied with her paperwork to fill out for the day than the letter stamped with the signet of O5-1. The letter could wait, while bureaucracy was eternal. Perhaps it was just some primordial fear, but she had to finish her work before she could make herself read it. The news that would be found within was unique, yes, but the wheels of the machine had to continue being greased in order to allow Site-19 to function. She's calmed by the gentle crackle of the fireplace. It allowed her to focus. She'd requested it specifically to improve her efficiency, and by God was it working. As she finishes the final paperwork on her desk for the day, Director Light opens the letter and glances at the picture inside. It is an image of a rising cross, as bright and brilliant as the sun, it flashes in her mind. The memetic agent. If anyone but her was looking at it, they'd be dead by now. She stands, pulling the blinds and locking her office door. She returns to her chair, breaking the seal on the letter and reading. He's dead. O5-1. Sophia holds the letter, looking over it a few times. He'd finally kicked the bucket. This would certainly interfere with various Foundation activity, but they would figure it out. She takes a sip of her tea, once more looking at the letter. She looks around her office, the warm glow of her fireplace soon being greeted by O5-1's letter. [[=]] + **THREE** [[/=]] Calvin Barrow, international head of the Unitarian Universalist Church, O5-3 of the SCP Foundation... ...opens a letter that was hand-delivered to him moments ago. It was his assistant at the SCP Foundation who did the deed, with the letter bearing only one sign of where it would've come from. The number **3** is written on the outside, and he's struck with the memetic image as he pulls it out of the envelope: a sterile hospital hallway. He opens the letter and is hit with the news of what has occurred. O5-1 has died. His jaw clenches. He did not personally know him very well. In fact, none of the O5s knew the others' identities, but he felt terrible. O5-1 had been his colleague, and even if he had not, human life was so valuable, so short, and now another life had departed for Heaven. He thanks his assistant, shaking their hand, and sits at his desk, tapping his fingers against it rhymically. He had no idea what to do, now. He was just to... keep going as usual? Death always hit Calvin hard, harder than most, but he hardens his heart and makes a phone call to his secretary, while placing the letter and envelope into a paper shredder. "Sam, can you please order a bouquet of roses?" [[=]] + **FOUR** [[/=]] Emmanuel Macron, President of France, Founder of the Renaissance Party, O5-4 of the SCP Foundation... ...sits half-drunk watching a small dying fire in the Salon des Ambassadeurs. The room is pitch black, the cold air from outside slowly killing the embers bit by bit. Macron transfixes on the fire, his right hand squeezing a quarter of a Bordeaux. Whatever's left of the bottle has rolled somewhere around the salon, all he cares about is the fire. He can only think of two things, his dog and Napoleon Bonaparte; he scrapes at his tongue, the Bordeaux staining his teeth. The moment sleep approaches him, he hears creaking, and he notices something. A beige letter with a cherry red wax seal floats lazily down from the chimney, it lands upon the dark orangish coals simmering in the firepit below. His brain, idled by alcohol and self-loathing, zips into focus as he drops the Bordeaux, spilling red wine into the expensive ottoman rug. Without thinking, he jams his hand straight into the fire, burning his fingers while swiping out the letter, as a small flame forms near its corners. With his other hand, he pinches the fire out and sags back into his chair. He sits on his burned hand to numb the pain and with his loose finger clumsily picks off the seal. He slowly scrapes off the intricately but inconspicuously inscribed wax seal. He pulls out the letter, a memo from his //archival associates//. Looking at the **4** on the letter, he sees himself, strung up on a cross and nailed to it, to the side of Christ himself. He irks at the mental image, like he does every time the council sends him one of their “check-up letters.” The image in his mind brings forth the words, "It is finished." The words ping around in his mind like pinball, a pained whine and then his ears pop. He sinks back into his chair, reading the memo. Macron drops the letter into his lap and takes his other hand, leaning over to find the bottle of Bordeaux. Once he finds the bottle, he tosses the letter into the embers and pours the rest of the wine into his glass. The letter begins to curl into black chards on the embers, and in another fit of focus using a small trowel he digs out the larger clumps of the letter and dumps the rest in his Bordeaux. The ash swivels around the red wine, he holds his nose and drinks the swirl. Macron slowly sits back down trying to relax as a proud mood strikes him. “//Tout émane de toi, grande et première cause… Tout s'épure aux rayons de ta divinité… Sur ton culte immortel la morale repose, Et sur les mœurs la liberté, Et sur les mœurs la liberté!//”[[footnote]] All emanates from you, Great and First Cause, all is purified by the rays of your divinity; on your immortal cult all morality rests, and on morals-- liberty, and on morals-- liberty. [[/footnote]] He sings, finally sinking into a warm, drunk sleep. [[=]] + **FIVE** [[/=]] Penticus Quintus Cincinnatus Lamar Vee the Vth, Exilarch of the (Holy) Roman Empire, Philosopher of the Platonic School, Possessor of the fifth Divine Avian, Pontifex Maximus, O5-5 of the SCP Foundation... ...was lounging in his East Coast mansion, laying on the couch like a depiction of an Emperor with an attendant serving grapes. Their attendant stood by their side, playing even further in this stereotype by actually serving them grapes on a plate. She picks a few off, yawning and laying further into the couch, before she's interrupted by another attendant. The attendant hands Penticus Quintus Cincinnatus Lamar Vee the Vth a letter, labeled with **5**, and it turns it over a few times before pulling off the wax seal. Ze reads it over, and frowns. O5-1 has perished. This troubles him, deeply, and so he decides to seek comfort in what he has laid upon his ornate fireplace. They place the letter underneath the five-winged Divine Avian, and collapse to their knees in prayer. "Fonulk. Nefth. Hlai. Ylotnn. Prasnc." The cleansing of the mind occurs, and with a newfound clarity and comfort, Penticus Quintius Cincinnatus Lamar Vee the Vth tears apart the letter, throwing its pieces around the room with little care for where they end up. The Pontifex Maximus decrees to her two followers, "And as the Star spoke unto the Divine Land, there is not but what has been found." [[=]] + **SIX** [[/=]] Rishama Samuiia bar Maliheh, appointed by His Holiness Sattar Jabbar Hilow to serve as O5-6 of the SCP Foundation... ...finishes performing the Masbuta, their weekly, holy baptism, in the Yardena of Jordan, the very same river where Yuhana Maṣbana, the greatest prophet, performed his baptisms. He exits the flowing river, and stands for a moment, enjoying the feeling of the sun's rays on his body. The world was imperfect as it was, the Lightworld and the Darkworld both shaped it, after all. There was the perfect feeling of the morning sun upon your skin, and the knowledge that too much of this perfection would singe your skin and leave you in pain. His wife, who had taken up the role of his attendant for the place where the Patriarch of their Faith had asked he work, came close to him and placed an envelope into his damp hand. He gives a small chuckle, before he turns it around and finds himself met with a **6**. He quickly dismisses himself from the pleasantries of the religious social life and retreats to his home. It was near the river to allow him quick access to flowing water, as it is a central point for most rituals. The Foundation's small facility in Jordan doubled as the way he got his O5 Council mail. It had to, really. If they built another site, it may lead to people getting notions of the identity of O5-6, especially if it was closer to his community. He would never wish them into the life of the Foundation, the secrecy. Their motto was to die in the darkness so others may live in the light, and he had never forgotten that. It was noble. He opened the letter, looked on the memetic kill-agent, a vivid image of a Mandaean Priest standing in the River Jordan, scanned the contents, and let out a sigh. O5-1 had passed, and that was that. No vote, nothing. Relief came over the Rishama, as he realized he didn't have to make any difficult decisions today. He placed the envelope into his trash can, and he went about his day. [[=]] + **SEVEN** [[/=]] Doctor James Hall, Doctor in Psychology, Doctor in Anpsychiatry, Ninth Year serving as the head of the International Anpsychological and Anpsychiatrical Society, Long-time Collaborator with the Foundation Department of Health and Wellness, Bureau of Mental and Social Health, O5-7 of aforementioned Foundation… ...was sipping a cup of tea while discussing the finer points of psychology with Doctor Simon Glass, who had just flew in from the United States. He had been sent to deliver a letter to O5-7, but Dr. Hall didn't often get time to talk with Simon, and he quite enjoyed discussing the latest developments in human psychology whenever Simon did happen to fly all the way out to Liverpool. “I am quite fond of the study of memory as a field, and very particular about the recent developments we’ve had the pleasure of discussing. Unfortunately, it would seem we are out of time. I wouldn’t want to keep you any longer, Doctor Glass, though hopefully you’ll return soon, yes?” Dr. Glass gave a curt nod before thanking him for the tea and beginning to exit his office. Suddenly remembering what Simon had visited him for, Dr. Hall started, “Ah! Before you go, please leave the letter you brought on the counter next to the door. I was so enraptured by our discussion I nearly forgot.” As soon as Simon left the room, O5-7 grabbed the letter, the wax **7** being torn open as he took out the sheet of paper. It was an announcement about a death. The death of O5-1. "Ach…” he said aloud to no one, he had not expected to go from such a wonderful conversation to such a sorrowful announcement. Perhaps he should take some time to mourn a trusted colleague? He furiously tore the letter apart, shredding it to bare pieces before slamming it into the trash to be incinerated later. As he sat back down in the chair behind his desk, he pressed a button on his desk phone, calling his secretary, "Cancel my meetings, I have something important that just came up." [[=]] + **EIGHT** [[/=]] High Priestess Aretedemos, Holiest Among the Thirteen Temples of Her Divine Cogwork MKHN, Serf To The Goddess, Highest Among Her Chosen, O5-8 of the SCP Foundation... ...was conducting a sacrifice for the Angel of Civilization, one of the most important children of MKHN. The oxen laid gored, it's entrails smeared on the alter as O5-8 peered over them, studying the entrails for signs of good tidings. She studied it for several minutes before she was satisfied with the results. The Ox was promptly added to the brazier of Her Holy Fire. "Angel of Civilization, give unto us what is good, whether we pray or pray not, but what is grievous, even if we pray for it, do thou avert" she muttered as the oxen burnt in the fire. As she prayed, there is a sharp rapping on the metallic door of the chamber. O5-8 looks up in annoyance as the door began to hiss open. Whoever dared to interrupt her offering had better bring good reason. "My Lady, I am very sorry for the interruption," the intruder said as he entered. She knew who it was of course, it was her courier. The man had a letter in his hand, embalmed with an elaborate wax seal, the number **8** was visible on it. "I take it this is business that cannot wait? I am in the middle of an important ceremony" She said, though she already knew the answer. "No my lady, I would not intrude had I not been specifically instructed to," Her courier stated flatly as he held out the letter for her. She took it before ushering her courier away. She delicately opens the letter before frowning as she read the contents. O5-1 had passed away. It was a shock and a sad one; she had liked O5-1, whoever they were. They didn't speak outside of correspondences within the Foundation, but she truly did believe MKHN had touched them in some way. She pulled out a small vial of alchemical acid she kept on her and stuffed the letter into it as she knelt back down at the altar. Today's ceremony would be even more important. [[=]] + **NINE** [[/=]] Jared Smith, member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, former prolific Parawatch forums poster, divorced father, O5-9 of the SCP Foundation... ...walked out into the streets of Hurricane, Utah. With a semi-ironic "World's Best Dad!" mug in his hand and only a bathrobe and slippers on, he opened his mailbox, grabbed everything inside, and scuttled back into the house. Thoroughly investigating, he finds a bill, another bill, his alimony, his child support, a Magic the Gathering pack he ordered, and... a letter, with the number **9** written on it. He sighs, setting the stack of mail down before opening the bills. His electric bill and his water bill are both about average. He hasn't really changed his lifestyle much since he got this job, even if he has gotten a comical amount of money from it. He picks up the letter from the Foundation, finally opening it up to receive a notice that O5-1 had died. O5-9 feels sad for a moment before it passes over him completely. That must suck for his family. He takes the letter and envelope to the sink, dousing them both with water until they're unreadable, and throwing the soggy paper into the trash can. He's got a Magic pack to open. [[=]] + **TEN** [[/=]] High Karcist Vajksaran Orokova, Karcist of the Temple in Bratsk, Prefect of the Old Adytum Praetorians, O5-10 of the SCP Foundation... ...was holding a rifle in his hand as he stalked through the forest near the Bratsk Reservoir. He liked to keep his skills sharp, lest they dull over the decades. His insectoid wings flicked subtly, shedding the dewdrops that had formed on them. A long, robe-like article of clothing disguised most of his more //peculiar// traits, just in case, but it was rare to encounter other hunters out this far in the woods. His mandibles clicked as he glances up at the falcon that has been circling in the sky above. Normally, he would not have paid it any mind, falcons are common in the skies of Eurasia, but he recognize this one. He let out a loud cicada chirp to call the bird down, which caused it to descend rapidly until it perched on one of his arms. It was a beautiful Eurasian Kestrel, well-groomed with vibrant black stripes, and clutched in its grip was an envelope. He pulls out a small vole to feed the kestrel as he takes the envelope from its talons. He turns it over before seeing the number **10** written on it. He grimaces slightly as he begins to tear open the envelope. Inside it, is a memetic kill agent, which was a small photograph of a man made of insects, and a letter. He has received this same letter at least 10 times before, another O5-1 had passed into the jaws of death. He does not feel sadness for this one; he has not stood out in Vajksaran's mind. He rolls up the letter and picture before swallowing them whole. They were ruined completely by the time they reached his lower esophagus. "Do not mourn, my avian friend," he said, stroking the kestrel's head, "There are always more, and there shall always be more." [[=]] + **ELEVEN** [[/=]] Sheikh Faisal Al Zafiri, recipient of the scholarly lineage of O5-11... ...finishes his Maghrib prayer and stands, entering his office. He has just received an urgent message from the Foundation in the form of a letter; his designation was on the front. He very gently opens the envelope and takes a moment to skim over the writing. The news was a shock. The anonymity of the Council, even to each other, made it all so much harder to predict when this would happen. A moment of grieving passes, and then the Sheikh feels nothing else. The anonymity makes it easier for him. He simply states, ".الله يرحمه"[[footnote]] May Allah have mercy on him. [[/footnote]] When they work for an organization as, frankly, haram as the Foundation, he cannot bear to linger too long on it. The Sheikh grabs his prayer mat from the other room, folding it back up and returning it to where it was kept in his office. He scowls and prepares for his favorite part of this whole damned endeavor. Blacking it out. Faisal reaches into his desk, taking out a box of matches. He gently strikes one, lighting it, as he looks down at the note. "Return to Jahannam, you damned thing," he mutters, as he holds the match up to the letter. It initially does not burn, and he clicks his tongue, before positioning the match and the letter slightly differently so that it finally catches fire. He lets it burn just enough so that the words cannot be made out, before tossing it into a trash can in the building. ".مَا شَاءَ ٱللَّٰهُ"[[footnote]] Allah has willed it. [[/footnote]] [[=]] + **TWELVE** [[/=]] Qiang Zimo, Head Priest of the remaining Chinese Manichaeans, O5-12 of the SCP Foundation... ...was awoken by the soft midnight glow of Chongqing. The lights of the city were something he never got used to, so much light all the time. He sat in bed with his eyes half-open, staring at the window of the pachinko parlor next door. The sounds of streets below, still bustling at this hour. Slowly dragging himself out of bed, Qiang went to boil water and head back to bed. As he did, a small bird came down to his open window. A crested honey buzzard sat staring proudly down at him in the dead of the night, its soft grey feathers stuck out like a sore thumb compared to the neon glow of the pachinko parlors filling the window’s view. In its beak was a severed hand holding an envelope, which it then dropped. From its beak, long spiderlike limbs emerged from its maw, pinching the sides of the severed hand. Qiang stood staring at the bird in puzzlement. The letter floated down to his writing desk. The bird spoke as a thin metal tube with the foundation’s logo on the side peered out. “对不起12，似乎有入侵者。一些附近的居民试图击落信使鸟。”[[footnote]] Sorry, 12, it seems there are intruders. Some nearby residents are attempting to shoot down the messenger birds. [[/footnote]] It squealed with a metal beep ringing in Qiang’s head. The soft memetic morse code the device beeped out always gave him little migraines. He waved his hands out in anger and annoyance, shooing the bird away. After it shat all over his windowsill and fluttered away, a tired, groggy grimace hung on Qiang's face before quickly snapping up the letter. He spares a glance to the memetic picture attached with it, before hurriedly pinching off the seal. He read its contents and sighed. “我的天啊。”[[footnote]] Oh my goodness. [[/footnote]] he rubbed at his eyes and wiped his face, turning off the kettle and heading downtown to go get a white envelope, joss paper, and international postage. [[=]] + **THIRTEEN** [[/=]] Esther Portman, Priest of the One Who Handed Him Over, Employee of the SCP Foundation, Attendant and translator of O5-13... ...held the letter from O5-1 in her hand. The **13** emblazoned within it clearly marked it for her master. The memetics washed over her as she opened it and read it once over. It seems One had passed, a shame, he had done his job well enough. She knocked three times on the door her master was behind and there was a clicking noise in the door that signaled she was allowed in. Had she not been here a thousand times, she would have tripped over the incense as she entered into the dimly lit room. There were no windows, only hundreds of tiny candles illuminating an ornate silver throne. The bones of O5-13 sat atop the throne; its lower half was missing, along with one of the arms. Ornate silks garbed it, contrasting the filthy noose that hung limply from its neck. Its eye sockets bore into Esther. The silence of the room was deafening. "My master. It seems O5-1 has passed away," she said, kneeling in front of his Holiness. The skeletons bones creaked. Motion? No, this thing has not truly moved in centuries, but she could feel it's intention. Wordlessly, as she had done a thousand times before, she stood up and leant down to the skull of O5-13. Its teeth stank of rot unable to be masked by the incense, its jaw as motionless as the rest of its body. Her ear was almost pressed directly onto the skeletal jaw, her eyes closed as she braced herself for what came next. And then, O5-13 spoke.