SCP-3946

Link to article: SCP-3946.

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[[=]]
> {{The date is 07/08/21. A recently uploaded draft of SCP-3946 is available for review, Site Director.}}
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> {{Would you like to view the article?}}
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> {{**##green|<Y>##**  ##ededed|. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . .##                  N}}
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**Item #:** SCP-3946

**Object Class:** Unassigned

**Special Containment Procedures:** 

The remains of SCP-3946 are to be left undisturbed at the location of its neutralization. A series of buoys is to demarcate a safe zone around SCP-3946, officially designated as a marine sanctuary. 

Artifacts and documents retrieved from SCP-3946 are to be kept in a hermetically sealed vault, with interactions with trained personnel wearing proper safety equipment limited to one hour.

**Description:** 

SCP-3946 was formerly a large, carnivorous, cephalopodic entity, which was hosted in a British galleon, dated to approximately the 17th century. The main mass of the entity was located within the galleon, and multiple tentacles emanated from the gun ports on the sides of the ship. These tentacles were utilized for locomotion and manipulation of objects, and were capable of tearing through steel and launching heavy objects a distance upwards of 150 meters. SCP-3946 was capable of manipulating its buoyancy, allowing it to sink under the surface of the water and quickly relocate for engagements.

**Discovery:**

SCP-3946 emerged 2 km southwest of Sierra Leone on 01/08/21, hypothesized to have been unearthed by a mudslide caused by a 5.0 magnitude earthquake earlier that day, where it initiated hostilities with local fishing trawlers. A nearby Foundation fleet was alerted to the event, wherein it quickly intercepted and engaged the entity. Attempts were made to faciliate containment, though the hostility from the entity made it infeasible. With permission from the nearest Site Director, the fleet quickly scuttled the ship by way of heavy artillery fire, planning to retrieve the organic mass after its incapacitation. Only the cruiser //SCPS Curie// sustained any degree of damage during the incident, with minor buckling to the aft hull and overheating of the starboard guns. A near-optimal number of fatalities occurred during the incident.

As SCP-3946 had sunken onto a shallow sandbar, the //SCPS Akasaki// deployed free-divers attempting to take samples of the cephalopod. However, the vast majority of its mass quickly disintegrated into a mixture of ink and mucus, excepting a barnacle-encrusted, beating human heart. Further exploration of the galleon revealed a watertight chest in the captain's quarters, containing records of docking, quartermaster reports, and other documents. The heart, tentatively designated SCP-3946-1, and the documents were then transferred to the //Akasaki// for delivery to Site-██ in the Bermuda Islands, while the remainder of the fleet continues its patrol of the African Coast.

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[[=]]
> {{The date is 19/08/21. An update to the file for SCP-3946 has occurred, Site Director.}}
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> {{Would you like to view the article?}}
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> {{**##green|<Y>##**  ##ededed|. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . .##                  N}}
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**Addendum:** Scanned copies of relevant documentation

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++ The R. H. Commission on Unusual Cargo
+++ Authorized by the Board of Regents of said Commission
 
+++ Manifest 182
 
[[span style="font-family: 'Courgette'; font-size: 120%;"]]Curator:[[/span]] [[span style="font-family: 'Tangerine', cursive; font-size: 170%;"]]Dr. Nathan Buchanan[[/span]]
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----

[[span style="font-family: 'Courgette'; font-size: 110%;"]]The Cargo is to be lain in hay within a sturdy oaken chest , dry and away from the elements . This chest is to be kept locked , with the only key hung around the neck of Dr. Buchanan . If there comes a time when the Cargo needs to be moved outside of the chest, handling of the Cargo is to be done with a pair of steel tongs , thick leather gloves at min . Possession of the key and Cargo shall be transferred to Dr . Seamus Lynch at the time that Buchanan makes landfall in Cape Coast .[[/span]]

++ The Cargo:

[[span style="font-family: 'Courgette'; font-size: 110%;"]]The Cargo is the still-beating heart of an abomination, slain by the Commission in Gibraltar's Strait by way of cannon and musket fire . The abomination was inhabiting an ancient trireme, washed ashore onto the Rock of Gibraltar after unusually strong tides and storms . As it was unable or unwilling to haul its bulk back into the depths, the monstrosity began to accost trading vessels as they passed with its innumerable tentacles, hurling boulders at more distant targets . As such, crew members present at its death christened it Scylla, the long-reached guardian of the channel.[[/span]]

[[span style="font-family: 'Courgette'; font-size: 110%;"]]When left in seawater for a length of time, the Cargo will experience a sudden growth of limbs and tentacles, using them to move deeper into the brine . Attempts to stop the Cargo by hand leads to the procurement of a beak and the sudden amputation of a finger . Leaving the Cargo to dry for several hours by flame or sun dampens its spirits somewhat.[[/span]]

[[span style="font-family: 'Courgette'; font-size: 110%;"]]Forays into the trireme's hold revealed the Cargo and several dozen clay vases, topped with wax and filled with olive oil, keeping its taste despite its apparent age. Oil sold to Sir Johnathan Darke to finance the voyage to the Gold Coast. While he also inquired into the possibility of purchasing the Cargo, common sense required the Commission to refuse. [[/span]]
[[/div]]


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> {{##red|**ALERT!**##}} 
>
> {{A member of the Central Atlantic Foundation Fleet has failed to respond to hourly hailing signals. The Alertness level in the CAFF has elevated to **##ced128|Yellow##**.}}
> 
> {{Would you like to declare any further actions, Site Director?}}
> 
> {{<Y>  ##ededed|. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . .##                  ##red|**<N>**##}}
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**Captain's Log**

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**[[span style="font-family: 'Tangerine'; font-size: 150%;"]]17th of July, 1642[[/span]]**

 After the completion of our journey to the East Indies, we have offloaded our cargo in the Morocco port of Ceuta. Despite the battle over its holdings between the Spaniards and Portuguese monarchs, it is still a place where coin reigns king.

 Quartermaster Sheeran had just finished negotiating with the miser Mendes,  when a fellow leading a menagerie of Oriental coolies boarded my ship and approached Sheeran. An English doctor, said he, wanting to place an East Indiaman into his employ for a one-time journey.

 Sheeran raised his hackles, he did, for queer individuals asking queer questions begets queer cargo. Preferring not to be bound to a God-forsaken port with illegal goods, he attempted to ask, gentlemanly-like, of course, what cargo to be bound where. Upon the question being raised, the fellow reluctantly procured a chest from one of his coolies, and showed it to Sheeran. Judging by the effort in which the doctor handled the chest, t'would be filled with gold. 

 Twern't able to hear the following discussion, but Sheeran took the man, introduced as Buchanan, by the hand and sealed the agreement.

 We shall sail to the Gold Coast within a fortnight.

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**[[span style="font-family: 'Tangerine', cursive; font-size: 170%;"]]30th of July, 1642[[/span]]**

The //Fortuna// has set sail with no incident, bar Lyle dragging his halfwit brother from the pub hours before our embarking.

The trade winds have been favorable this year, and appearing earlier is a welcome change to our luck. Despite the conditions, I petitioned Quartermaster Sheeran to fill our stores for the journey, but he was concerned for the coin, and only filled half. Not one to be so frivolous with supplies, I must admit that the light weight of Fortuna has made her sleek in the water. Aided by the tailwind and Canary current, we shall make good time rounding the coast. As I slept to our speed, I dreamt a strange dream of blue and brine. 

Good Doctor Buchanan has made himself room in Sheeran's quarters, which he generously gave, but Buchanan has locked himself within his quarters for the past three days, only leaving to accept meals given to him by his coolies. Unable to speak Lord's English or Spanish, the coolies make for terrible deckhands, and the rest of the crew feel unwilling to sup with them, leaving a chasm betwixt the camps in the galley. Despite the strangers among us, the crew would never stop from making merry, singing bawdy songs of women and waters and praised the Lord for the good weather.
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**[[span style="font-family: 'Tangerine', cursive; font-size: 170%;"]]9th of August, 1642[[/span]]**

That fortnight at anchor feels but a mirage now, slipped away as the currents of time, yet a day at sea feels like an age. I have had a recurring dream of late, of water and dark and songs most pure, yet I cannot recall specifics. Ship's Doctor Willis claims fruit cures all ailments of the sea, Bah to that I say.

At noon the ensign reported the sighting of dolphins, playing in our wake to starboard. The sight lifted the crew's spirits up for but a moment, however, and they slipped back into a sour melancholia. There has been a miasma of unease among the crew, likened to birds sensing a storm. Buchanan has rejoined the crew, claiming the production of sea legs, that the nerves had finally settled. Posh, I say, but let it rest besides.

 That same dream visited again in the night, more clear in my mind than ever, and with it a storm, brewing in my mind and without. As twere I was adrift in the blue, skin sun-spackled from the waves above. I had no want for air. In those dark waters the most beautiful song was ringing out across the depths, in a language unrecognizable to the ear, but yet filled with grief and loss. I felt the singer be right to my back, I surely felt she must be the fairest maiden, but as I turned I awoke, slicked with sweat and ached of heart. The rest of the day a fearsome itch overcame me, as if worms digging neath my skin
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**[[span style="font-family: 'Tangerine', cursive; font-size: 170%;"]]11th of August, 1642[[/span]]**

The God-gifted good weather has turned for worse, and we were struck by a monsoon most vicious in nature. The crew was caught unawares, me most of all, as it seemed as the thunderhead churned into being in but an instant, forgoing lurking upon the horizon for leaping upon us akin a cat with a lame mouse.

 During the storm some cargo, most containing rations, went overboard, along with Lyle's brother. Damn his daftness and thrice damn the brothel girl that birthed him. Buchanan was nowhere to be found, and twas feared he be overboard along with the cargo, but scouring the ship he was found gripping the chest, hair oily and matted, rocking in the corner of his quarters as a babe clutches her blankets. He was given a pint o whiskey, which cheered him some.

The damn dream plagues me. Every time I shut my eyes, I see glimpses of the water, hear snatches of a song. I just want to sleep.

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**[[span style="font-family: 'Tangerine', cursive; font-size: 170%;"]]14th of August, 1642[[/span]]**

 The dour mood has thickened like a fog upon the water. The crew rose with bad temper and look at Buchanan and his coolies with a glint of murder. I have heard talk of curses and knives. 

Sheeran has confessed that some of the sailors wish to throw the doctor overboard, along with his chest, to rid ourselves of the darkly cloud of omen that has been following the //Fortuna// since we left harbor. I told Sheeran that any dissenting talk earns a day in the stocks, but really it not be dissent I fear. Without all reason, my heart lurches 'gainst my ribs in protest imagining the sight, as if it be my lover cast into the waves rather than cargo.

 I fear there be mutiny.

 I fear I be mad.

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**[[span style="font-family: 'Tangerine', cursive; font-size: 170%;"]]15th of August, 1642[[/span]]**

The dream struck upon me again this past night. The water, sweeter. The disembodied song, as rich and saddening than ever, the keening making mine tears one with the brine, so filled with loss and longing for something gone long ago. I was filled with lust in that moment, for my heart both yearned to have that song forever in my breast and to have the women singing the blessed tune forever between my arms. But again I was wrenched from my sleep as soon as I turned, awoken yet again for this floating hell.

The food is pathetic and tasteless. The clothes lousy and coated with grime. Ordering the crew to make merry only made me order them to cease, as their voices were grating and stinging compared to the song of the girl found only in the echoing passageways of my mind. My melancholia is only worsened by the itch.

 My incessant scratching has led to bleeding, and the unearthing of hard pustules upon my body. I order Willis into my cabin to inspect me, and he was shocked by the sight of my bare chest. Barnacles, claimed he, and I threw him out of the cabin for suggesting such a thing.

 These past few days we have been recording a drift in our course, which we have expended great effort to correct, but the wind and sea fight 'gainst our works, the storm most of all. We shall be at half-rations from now on, quarter-rations for passengers.
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**[[span style="font-family: 'Tangerine', cursive; font-size: 170%;"]]16th of August, 1642[[/span]]**

The ship is silent, naught but the creaking of the rigging and the blowing of the wind makes a sound. 

The coolies have locked themselves in their quarters. Same as with the crew, coming out only to do their sullen duty, and then back again. 

Buchanan was out and about this day, pacing acrost the deck, leaning against the starboard taffrail,looking out to sea for a single moment before resuming his pacing. His skin was tan and leathery, and his face was unwashed and unshaven. After watching him for several minutes he caught my gaze and appeared frightened. So easily frightened, him. I took him aside and asked him what the matter was. He took deep, shuddery breaths and said that he would be thought mad. I took in my surroundings for a while, before responding 'We all might be mad.'

He looked relaxed at my phrasing and took me in confidence, hurriedly telling me about the plague of dreams that he as been experiencing. Songs in the deep, feeling a presence behind him. He has not been able to sleep for God knows how long. I was incensed. Those were Mine own dreams. She is for me. ME. And Me alone. How dare he try to steal her away from me, the woman of my dreams, attempting to cuckold me?

Attempting to keep my temper, I asked him, lowly, whether he felt like she was meant for him. He looked at me oddly, then, and, slowly, said that he felt like she was lost, looking for something, but not him. I relaxed then, for he was hearing not a song meant for him, but merely being a voyeur to my dreams. I dismissed his concerns, telling him not to worry, it is merely the salt air. He didn't seemed convinced, but eased slightly. 
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Sleep does not come. 

Does she not want to see me? 

I toss and turn and yet I am not taken to my beloved.

Have I done wrong, confronting Buchanan?

i am sorry, my love, please let me hear you sing. I shall not try to look this time. 
[[/div]]
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**[[span style="font-family: 'Tangerine', cursive; font-size: 170%;"]]17th of August, 1642[[/span]]**

Buchanan has been hiding many a thing from me.

The Cargo, The --Comi-- Commission, her heart, it all hidden from mine own eyes, as if I weren't the chartered captain.

He think me not privy to his secrets that he keeps? Nay, he is mighty foolish and arrogant to think of me as a layman easy to be hoodwinked.

As he and the crew supped, stomach and minds churning with hunger and thoughts of mutiny and betrayal, I snuck into his quarters, searching for her. The woman of my dreams told me of where she lies, and I found her, within an chest hewn of oak and banded with iron. Alas, I possessed no means to open it, so I let it lie. 

I then searched his drawers and his lockers, finding documents to the Commission, detailing their wholesale slaughter of her body, ripping her heart from her body like savages. My rage was such that I crumpled the documents and left the quarters a wreck, unleashing my anger upon his possessions. 

The crew heard the commotion and ran to the quarters, restraining me from my outburst. Sheeran, --that son of a cur-- --that cuckold-- that slimy rat bastard, came upon the room and took in the sight, upon which he declared me incompetent, and ordered the crew to confine me to my quarters.

As a gesture of charity they gave me my log to write with, maybe hoping I write my final will and testament. Bah, I give them naught but the shit from my boot.

I feel a storm is brewing upon the horizon. And it smells like treachery and rain.
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The storm came upon us like her own wrath, laying upon the ship as a Tiger her prey. 

 Her heart is within my possession, as well as the key. I gently asked the cabin boy through the door to let me loose for just a while, as my legs were cramped and I needed to relieve myself. Poor, foolish cabin boy. The good doctor was naught but a parcel of bones, parchment skin stretched acrost his body kettledrum-taut, wrapped around the chest protectively. A puddle of bile surrounded him as the storm forced him to give up his meagre share of food.  It was for the good of all that I take the key and cargo and protect it from the crew. It was a shame that he didn't listen to captain's orders.

 They are at the door now, begging for reason and screaming epithets in equal measure, nearly drowned out by the banshee screeching of the lashing gale. I heard Sheeran hoarsely call for a sturdy iron bar and the coolies belting in their Godforsaken tongues. The door shan't last long. The crew is naught but --a rabble-- rabbits, rabbits spooked by the gray storm and gray seas. 

 They want to kill her

 They shan't

 The sailors bestowed her the name Scylla in wry humor, but they be right.

 She hungers for what I will gladly give her, a body to replace the beauty that Amphitrite jealously wrenched from her.
 
 Render unto the sea's that which is the seas, and ye shall be free.
[[/div]]


[[=]]
> {{##red|**CRITICAL ALERT!**##}} 
>
> {{The date is 19/08/21. A member of the Central Atlantic Foundation Fleet has been overtaken by a hostile anomalous entity. The Alertness level in the CAFF has elevated to **##red|RED##**.}}
> 
> {{The O5 Council requests your presence immediately following the conclusion of this incident, Site Director. }}
> 
> {{This order is non-optional.}}
[[/=]]

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SCP-3946

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