SCP-9014

Link to article: SCP-9014.

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[[include component:preview
text=
Tell the story I have forgotten, I must have faith that it is worth telling. And in its telling, let me live again, for just another phrase.
]]
=====
[[>]]
[[module Rate]]
[[/>]]

[[include :scp-wiki:theme:basalt hidetitle=a|acs-itemnum=a]]

[[include :scp-wiki:component:anomaly-class-bar-source

|item-number= 9014

|clearance= 2

|container-class= safe

|disruption-class= keneq

|risk-class= notice

]]

------

[[include component:image-block name= Doblone_di_Filippo_V.png |caption=SCP-9014-1 Instance.|width=300px]]

**Special Containment Procedures:** All artifacts, documents, or references relevant to PoI-1718 (hereafter referred to as Sea Captain Peters), the Calamar Cuadrado or its crew, or GoI-42 (the Libertalian Federacy) are to be re-designated as SCP-9014 research material.

Department of Archaeology Naval Task Force Chi-30 "The Very Model of a Modern Mobile Task-Force" are to remain on standby for deployment in the former territory of the Libertalian Federacy, for the purpose of recovering and containing SCP-9014 instances.

**Description:** SCP-9014 is the collective designation for all documents, artifacts, and locations relating to the final voyage of Sea Captain Peters. Many of the designated instances are non-anomalous, but have been assigned an SCP designation to streamline the SCP-9014 research process.

SCP-9014-1 are a series of gold doubloons[[footnote]] A currency denomination of the Spanish Empire, worth aproximately four Spanish dollars. [[/footnote]] bearing a mnemomantic[[footnote]] A branch of thaumaturgy relating to memory. [[/footnote]] thaumaturgical working. The instances appear indistinguishable from doubloons minted in New Spain and New Granada during the mid-17th century. The mnemomantic working is activated when an instance is touched by any conscious high-sapience being,[[footnote]] Currently known to affect //Homo sapiens sapiens//, //Homo sapiens sidhe//, and //[https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-1000 Homo sapiens noctis]//. Further research into affected species is ongoing. [[/footnote]] and causes the affected individual to experience a full-body dissociative hallucination, believed to be from the perspective of Sea Captain Peters. These hallucinations are unique to each instance.

Time perceived within the hallucination does not correspond to externally measured time. In testing, time between interacting with an instance and becoming receptive to external stimuli has not exceeded 10 seconds. However, individuals report the hallucinatory experiences lasting anywhere from five minutes to one hour.

At present, 9 SCP-9014-1 instances are currently in Foundation containment. An unknown number remain uncontained.

------

**Discovery:**

The first documentation relating to Sea Captain Peters was uncovered in a disorganised collection of documents evacuated by the Foundation shortly after the Cuban Revolution. At present, researchers have been unable to locate any record of the individual responsible for the creation of the document.

[[div class="document"]]
**Description:** A bill of health issued by the Havana port authorities that states the frigate called The Calamar Cuadrado, captained by Peters, is cleared to proceed on a voyage to Espiritu Santu.[[footnote]] An island in modern day Vanuatu. [[/footnote]] The bill notes recent repair work carried out on the Calamar. The date is mostly illegible, but appears to have been issued in the 1690s.
[[/div]]

------

[[div class="document"]]
**Description:** Three bills of sale recovered from local archives on Saint Kitts. The first and second, signed by Isidore Garcia and dated to April 3rd and April 8th, are for a variety of salted meats, and 16lbs of tobacco respectively. The third, signed by Peters and dated to the 8th, is for a single pouch of tobacco. All three bills bear the same coat of arms.
[[/div]]

------

The following document is a translation of a scouting report recovered from archives in the town of Xcan Boloná, Mexico, believed to have originated on Cozumel before the population's relocation in 1650.

[[div class="document"]]
3 AM
A vessel reminiscent of a galleon but far smaller has sailed into the outskirts of these waters. The ship has an abnormal figurehead which cannot be made out clearly at this time. Due to poor visibility, it cannot be verified whether this ship is registered and if it has cleared customs.
4 AM

The vessel noted above still has not moved. I believe, however, they may have dispatched a smaller craft in between scout changes. The lights on the vessel are off, yet in the dim reflection of the moonlight on the water’s surface, it is clear that the ship has an abnormal shape to the front of it.

A light has gone on in the ship near the forecastle, perhaps being used to serve as a makeshift lighthouse. This confirms earlier suspicions of a smaller craft being taken ashore. There will be no change of watchmen, as to not allow for another incident to occur.
5AM

The suspected small craft has made its way back to the larger ship. The direction of the shore which it traveled from is an area currently occupied by the Mayans left on this island.

Despite the questionable nature of this ship, its seemingly peaceful interaction with the Mayans prompts no physical action to be taken, as to avoid agitating the natives and losing another source of supplies.

6 AM

The ship, now identifiable as a possible pyrate or buccaneer ship, has left the waters. The previously unknown strange figurehead can now be seen to be that of a large squid. This description aligns with descriptions of a ship belonging to a known enemy of the crown, and as such we will pursue it once it has reached a certain distance from the shore.
[[/div]]

------

The SCP-9014-1 acquired by the Foundation was located by chance by NTF Chi-30 during a routine resupply stop. The unique hallucinatory experience is transcribed below. Please note, the transcription is formatted to convey the experience as described by testing subjects.

[[div class="blockquote"]]

The salt flecks upon the stiff breeze sting comfortingly across your weather-beaten features. On the horizon, scant clouds mull the relative worth of continued cohesion, but see fit not to mar the free and open sky above. Rough below your fingertips, the intricate carvings running to and fro across the wooden railings hum with a deep feeling of contentment. Safety. Home.

The activity on deck hurries by as a frantic blur, halting but for a few moments before returning to hectic motion. A shanty refrain as the main sail is hauled up. A warm smile at your shoulder. A hail of calls as a familiar flag brushes the easy horizon. At last, the jumble of sights and sounds settle into a clear and present now.

A voice rings out from the crow's nest, and you bring a brass spyglass to follow the clawed talon of the crow. There, some handful of miles leeward of the Calamar, an island -- scarcely more than a sandbank bearing a solitary palm. And, sheltered in the whisper of shade at the palm's base, a child.

The hundred eyes of your crew turn attentively for direction, the stillness broken at haste as you call a heading. Again, clarity dissolves to movement and action. Your friends haul rope and bustle about the deck, no one point is clearer than the whole -- the ship, a unified organism.

When the vision crystalises once more, you are waist deep in the surf, the comforting weight of cutlass and pistol safely stowed on the ship's boat bobbing contentedly behind you. Deep brown eyes, sunken into a dark and sallow face, pierce you. There is no hostility in those eyes, but neither is there trust. They are wary eyes, a wariness you are uncomfortably accustomed to.

As you approach, the eyes widen, and the gaunt body of the child curling away from you is a sharp and unpleasant sight. You sit. The edge of the tide laps against your frame, legs crossed and palms resting on your knees, facing the sky. Patience settles into your tired bones. Slowly, the child's body language begins to relax, but tenses again as you reach gradually towards a high inner pocket. With agonising slowness, you retrieve the guava within and place it on the sand, as far from you as you can reach.

Returning the hand to its place on your knee, you return to waiting. Conflict flickers across the child's face, but it does not take long for hunger to outweigh fear, as it so often does. They crawl across the pink sands and take the fruit in both hands. You meet their hesitant glance with the softest smile your features will allow, and they bite firmly into the soft flesh.

[[/div]]

------

The following document was recovered from an archival library in Aruba, collated with a series of receipts and inventories dating from the mid-to-late-17th century. The reverse side of the paper appears to be a bill of sale for [https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/manifest-704 Colossi scales].

[[div class="document"]]
It’s been two days since we left port, yet it feels like Baracoa was a lifetime away. I feel very relieved to be free from it all, though there's another piece of me that feels very guilty. As if I have let down what little I had there. However, there’s no use dwelling on the past, recent though it may be. Jak has been very kind to me the past few days, teaching me how to salt and clean a type of fish he called gillray. The smell reminds me of the fish market. He says in a few day's time he will teach me to spearfish. I have to say, life aboard the Calamar is rather different than I had come to believe it would be like. It’s a relatively small vessel and life seems more uneventful than I expected. People always talked of mythical sea beasts and same with Peters. I find his appearance oddly captivating. If you were to believe one in ten of the stories told about the captain you would expect him to be a large, powerful man. As Ma would have said though, he’s a bit closer to the earth than the sky. His hair, on the other hand, reaches decently past his shoulders. While mainly grey now, a few streaks of brown remain. His face is almost feminine and wrinkles lay under his eyes. His arms and body, while strengthened from the sea work, seem rather thin. In spite of this, there’s a strange sort of air about him that I find hard to put to words. Over the past score of my life, I’ve seen many men who when they speak, people listen. None of them were like him. It is almost as if a quiet hangs in the air around him. If I had to put it to words I think it is that when people speak, Peter listens. He talks the same way to me he would talk to the quartermaster or a crew member of many years.
[[/div]]

------

The following SCP-9014-1 instance was located already in Foundation custody. Having previously been identified as an Anomalous Object in low priority storage, a regular inventory appraisal caused the item to be re-referred to the SCP-9014 research project.

[[div class="blockquote"]]
You can barely make out the world beyond your own eyelashes, hazy and blurred as it is. The room around you is indistinct. Warm light floods the room from an open window to your right, framed by rough hewn sticks that make up the bars of your cot.

Faint cooing draws your attention to a woman leaning over the railing, a hand reaching down towards you. The details of her face are as hazy as the rest of the room. Despite the lack of clarity, you know that she has your eyes. Or you have hers. You're certain that they match, though you cannot see your own, and hers are no more clear than the room you are in.

An expression crosses her face. You cannot tell what the expression is, but a melancholy falls across you, a feeling of loss, as if something has been taken from you forever. Your tiny fingers close around the thumb of her hand, and a sound escapes her lips. You cannot place it. A gasp, or a sob, delight or surprise or joy. The hand shakes as it pulls away from your grip, and the light seems to fade as she leaves your vision.
[[/div]]

------

The following documents were retrieved from a site in eastern Curaçao by NTF Chi-30. The site is believed to be the final resting place of Marigje Hendricksz and her crew, following an attack by Dutch forces in 1693. Previously acquired documents suggest Hendricksz was connected to the Libertalian Federacy for some time before her death, and the attack may have been connected to anti-Federacy actions undertaken by European crowns in the Caribbean in the late 17th century.

[[div class="document"]]
Let this document be known as an agreement between Peters, Captain of El Calamar Cuadrado and Marigje Hendricksz, Captain of the Verloren Duif, ensuring safe passage for El Calamar Cuadrado and related ships through the waters of Curaçao.
[[/div]]
[[div class="document"]]
Peters,

I understand that you wish to travel through the waters of Curaçao. You know I have no qualms with your presence in this region, but I know that the government most certainly will. We have been friends for years, and I understand entirely that this voyage is important to you. I swear to you Peters, that I will ensure you and your crew’s safety during this time.
It pains me greatly to hear of […]the illness..it is with this heavy weight in my heart that I[…]please know that if[…]so wish, there is rest for[…]here…
I know nothing can keep you and your crew down, and so I entreat you to go ever further in your mission. Stay strong, and let the fire inside you burn ever bright!
Myself and my crew stand behind you.
Marigje Hendricksz
[[/div]]

------

The next SCP-9014-1 instance was appropriated from the private collection of Gerhart Williams.

[[div class="blockquote"]]

A firm hand strikes you between the shoulders as you stand before a pair of double doors, far more ostentatious than the timber beams that frame them. The startled leap the action elicits from you is met by a booming laugh, and accompanied by a far quieter grinding noise further behind. Turning, you see a broad-set woman, an even broader smile cutting her heavily tanned and crooked features.

"Peters," her head cocks lightly to one side, "How nice of you to finally join us."

"I would apologise, Marigje," your words are accompanied by a slight flicker in the corner of your mouth. "But a good friend has oft told me that a good woman is worth waiting for."

The grin slips from her face, and an odd chattering emanates from behind her.

"Now that's not remotely fair. Rabbit is bad enough, I don't need you using my own words against me as well." By way of response, Rabbit peaks out from behind her and clips her behind the ear. As peculiar an individual as any in the Federacy, lagomorphic and anthropomorphic features refusing to quite cohere, but reliable in equal measure.

"Well, I should suppose we have dallied as long as is polite; after you my dear." Bowing in good jest, you gesture to the doors, and follow in behind Marigje and her unusual companion.

Waiting patiently around a circular table engraved with innumerable names sit a quorum of Libertalian representatives. You note Goldbeard of the Crimson Assurance, adjusting their eponymous beads; Charlotte de Berry, already in fierce discussion with The Freeman beside her; and James Misson, standing to call the meeting to order the moment he sees you step through the door.

Exchanging smiles and pleasantries with all in attendance, you take your seat between Misson and Goldbeard, while Marigje sits opposite and Rabbit stands at her shoulder. The details of the discussion wash over you. Goldbeard noting blockades around Eleuthra, met with assurances of a raid somewhere or other to cover any shortfall, murmurings of increased French presence in Saint-Domingue, a joke here and there to cut the tension. You offer input where needed, but little of the noise is clear and full.

Suddenly, Marigje strikes the table with a fist.

"Enough." There is a hard edge to her voice, but it does not rise to anger. "I didn't call for quorum to discuss minutiae."

A murmur of trepidation ripples through the room.

"It cannot have escaped attention that we are losing ground," the murmur rises from trepidation to consternation. Marigje's voice rises in intensity as she continues. "We are losing ground even as we speak. The crowns are escalating their actions and it cannot be long before they bring their full weight against us."

"Marigje, where are you going with this?" Misson leans forward, chin resting on interlaced fingers.

"I will be forthright. I propose war." The room settles into a strained hush, none quite certain how or when to break the silence.

"We cannot." It is your own words that spill out first. "Marigje, your concerns are valid, I share them, as I'm sure do all of our present company, but war with even one of the crowns is a hopeless endeavour."

"We've done it before, Peters," anger is beginning to split the corners of her words, "Or are the curonians still holed up on Tobago without my knowing?" Table thumping agreement from The Freeman and de Berry follow.

"They are not," you begin, holding up a hand to cut off de Berry's imminent comment before continuing, "They are not, but the price of driving out the least of the crowns was no less than two hundred and sixty three lives, all but twenty four of them civilians. I cannot weigh the cost of any single life against liberation, Marigje, but I can neither--" a rattling cough halts you in your tracks and you again hold up a hand to assuage the immediate concern on Misson's face.

"I'm sure every one of them would see that it is necessary that we drive out their murderers, then Peters." The Freeman this time, a look of disappointment plain upon his sharp features.

"Do not, my friend, presume to speak for the dead." There is ice in your tone through the taste of blood on your tongue, "I fear I will not steel my heart to add to their number in their name, for it is a ledger that can never be balanced once we begin." Goldbeard nods their head in agreement.

"And I fear, my love," Marigje's eyes narrow, "That you may be growing weak."

In this moment, the weight of years drags your shoulders down, and it is a struggle to raise your eyes to meet hers. "You may be right. You may indeed." You struggle to pull a deep sigh from the breathless air of the room, "I cannot order any one of you, any more than you may order me, if war is what you wish then you may take it by your own hands." A single tear attempts to escape from your eye. "But the Cuadrado cannot sail with you. I hope that you can forgive me."

[[/div]]

------

Below is an extract from an early manuscript of //A General History of the Pyrates// by Charles Johnson, originally acquired from the Wanderers' Library. The extract is taken from a chapter on Pierre la Grand that is absent from all otherwise known editions of the book. It is unclear at this time why passage was subsequently redacted.

[[div class="document"]]
...They proceeded after this to the island of //Tortuga//, therein to seek refuge from the Ships in pursuit of a Galleon they made themselves masters of. Here they thought they might lye privately until such time as they may escape back to the shores of //France//.
The 19th day of August, meeting with //Peters//, a pyrate of some renown and being generally esteemed as a Man of //Honour//, they pleaded help and the Benefit of //Peters'// Friends in their escape. //Peters// saw it that //Pierre// may not return with certainty to //France//, but would find Passage with his Friends North three years hence, and would remain safe with his Friends for that Time.
[[/div]]

------

The following letter was discovered by NTF Chi-30 in a cache of documents unearthed near the Tibes Indigenous Ceremonial Center, north of Ponce, Puerto Rico, United States. The documents within the cache all appear to relate to the Libertalian Federacy, primarily letters and writs of passage for ports on neighbouring islands. The current hypothesis is that the cache served as a part of a postal service for the members of the Federacy, safe from the influence of the European local governments.

[[div class="document"]]
My Dearest Peters,

I am writing to you of our progress in the Northern Atlantic. I fear this letter may take several months to reach you but I believe the subject matters here may be of interest to you nonetheless. We’ve been experimenting with the introduction of blue spiders to some of our hydroculture fields with varied success. Fascinating creatures, really. They are formdancers who spend most of their lives appearing as small glowing blue jellyfish. In this shape, they are rather sedentary and harmless. We believe the light they give off can be used to mimic sunlight, allowing us to grow certain crops far further from the ocean surface than we had previously thought possible. However, to eat they take the shape of large toothy fish and have rather voracious appetites. I have heard tales of swarms picking entire sharks clean. The more pressing issue, however, is that they also will eat the very crops we are using them to grow. The one notable exception is that of Kantweed. In taste and texture, it is very similar to seaweed but the spiders won’t touch it. I would suppose they find it disagreeable to their system. Furthermore, they seem to quite enjoy preying on many of the pests that infest the crop. The created waste also seems to serve as an effective manure. It is truly a match made by God.

With love, J.

P.S. - There has recently been talks of a consortium on a system of classification and organization of fauna. The subject of how to go about this classification has been a topic of heated debates in the intellectual circles here. Should classification be based off physiology? If so, how does one classify formdancers like the blue spiders? How does one account for beings such as the fae folk [https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/a-faerie-tale-of-twin-queens whose shapes are as varied as their magick]. Is it right to classify the magickal in the same system as the natural? I was curious to hear your perspective.
[[/div]]

------

The following SCP-9014-1 instance was recovered, along with a collection of mundane doubloons, from an antique's dealer in northern Trinidad. How the dealer came into possession of the items is unclear, having disappeared shortly before the Foundation acquired them.

[[div class="blockquote"]]

Rabbit sits across the desk from you, somewhat awkwardly slumped in a plush, velvet chair originally built for more conventionally human bodies. To the left and right, your sight-line is dominated by floor to ceiling bookshelves, each full to bursting with tomes and atlases, bound collections and journals, magic and mundane. As with everything in the quarters, each was a gift from some old friend or lost acquaintance. In a way, so was Rabbit.

"Rabbit, I--" you begin, eyes focused on the doubloon rolling back and forth across the knuckles of your left hand, but Rabbit lifts a paw to cut you off.

"If this is about Marigje, captain, then you needn't have called." Rabbit's ears remain tilted slightly back, relaxed, "Rest assured there's nothing that needs to be said."

"I understand, that wasn't my meaning in requesting present company, although I fear I must ask," ears pricked lightly forwards in response, "Did she, before she, well--" the words do not come easily to your tongue, and the markings of the coin have imprinted on your palm before you notice you have been gripping it. A rattling breath flows from your lungs, barely suppressing the cough behind it, "Did she forgive me, is what I mean."

There is silence, for a moment. A hesitant edge offset by the wan smile on your compatriot's too-human lips.

"She didn't have to, Peters." Rabbit meets your gaze, and you choke down something between a chuckle and a sob, swiveling your posture to obscure the tears rising unbidden.

"She would believe that, wouldn't she." Your tone is entirely rhetorical.

"You knew her as well as anyone else, however she left it was always going to be on her own terms."

A quiet flurry of reminiscence follows, an abridged in memoriam filled with warm laughs and earnest commiseration.

With the last tale told, and a drink offered, a silence settles into the room and your focus returns to the coin in your hand. Rolling it from one knuckle to the next, watching it arc across the fingers between, and then back to the crook of the thumb. You repeat the motion several times, anchoring the moment in your mind, and then turning back to Rabbit.

"It has, I confess, provoked some introspection," the long ears across from you prick forwards, inquisitively. "I don't expect to forget her so easily, neither I doubt will any who knew her. But what, maychance, will come to pass with our passing? Memory lasts only so long as those do that may hold it, after all." Rabbit's head cocks to the side in response, and you feel a pang of regret in noticing the shared mannerism.

"It should be supposed indeed," your friend leans forwards, propped up by not quite human paws, "But is that not the way of things? What would you be proposing, Captain?"

"Make no attempts at formality for my sake, friend, it is ill-fitting." You flash a sincere smile, "The way of things is the way of things, but must it be so? I can imagine little sadder than the prospect of all that we are and have been damned to the cracks of history once none are left to remember it."

The silent expression of puzzlement on Rabbit's face is enough to prompt elaboration.

"I have a prospect, a deal perhaps, to propose. Present company will be required, and I will not, of course, proceed without agreement, but the proposition is relevant to nomenclatively obtuse acquaintances of the Federacy, if my meaning is clear?"

Rabbit's ears, so far content to flip between curious and relaxed with the ebbs and flows of conversation, pin firmly backwards -- anxiety plain in everything but voice, "And the contents of the proposal being?"

With a flourish, you flash the doubloon, brandished between thumb and forefinger, "Gold is all I ask for. In exchange, I intend to offer up the experiences that have made me the man I am." What false mirth you can muster into the pitch evaporates against the stone wall of Rabbit's expression.

"What, precisely, do you expect to be the end result of this transaction? What can you do with more gold and less self that you are not already capable of?" The typical impish sing-song tone endemic to Rabbit's words is absent, the realisation sends a brief shudder down your spine, though your interlocutor appears not to notice.

"My thinking, friend, is that the friends of my friend would be lacking in purpose for such an ephemeral trinket. It is, thus, my hope that our mutual friend should find it in their hearts to combine cost and currency," With that you flip the coin high into the air and snatch it back.

"You presume much, Peters," a hard stare balances the twinkle in your own gaze, "First, in assuming that your friend's friends could truly be called such, acquaintance is closer and such acquaintance is cold by its nature. For second, an assumption of grace is misplaced upon Them." Something in Rabbit's phrasing gives you pause, there is a clear significance to it that eludes your knowledge, "They have little, exiles that They are, and are not wont to forfeit that which They could own, believe that They would destroy before compromising on this."

You are struck by the dawning realisation that Rabbit has never been so blunt with you before. The typical playful edge and dry wit are absent. Flipping the coin absent mindedly, you ponder aloud "If They would sooner destroy..."

Rabbit remains in silence, eyes flitting between your own and the arc of the coin as it lands back in your palm. There is a question evident behind the inscrutable, dark gaze, but not the will to voice it.

"A query, Rabbit."

"Captain?"

"The Duif carries space for twice her crew, correct?"

"Indeed," Rabbit's head cocks to one side, ears pricked sharply forwards, "But for why--"

"And," You raise a hand to interrupt, "How swiftly could we decamp the Calamar, should the need arise?"

"Peters, if your meaning is clear then please reconsider, the Calamar is a symbol of--"

"A symbol of a dying man and a fading dream, my friend," you feel a sad smile cross your eyes, "A symbol of a world that will be left behind, sooner than we would care to admit." Your eyes drift as you speak, tracing first the stout, dark ribs of the Calamar as they climb the cluttered walls. Then the beams, and their gilded lanterns spilling soft light across the room with the ocean's caress. Finally, down to your own desk. Simple in construction, made magnificent by the wealth of adornments accrued across more years than even you can remember.

Rabbit, catching the gleam of reminiscence in your tired eyes perhaps, holds the disaproving barb you likely deserve.

"She is my oldest friend," the realisation of what you are about to say sends what remains of your heart thundering in your chest, "Older than Marigje, older than I perhaps remember," you can feel tears welling in your eyes and wipe them hurriedly away, "She has seen me across the world and further, and I think perhaps I ask too much of her. As I have always asked too much of those I love. But I will ask this final thing of her. And of another friend, of whom I have done precious little to deserve," you fix your wandering eyes on Rabbit, "Please contact these exiles. I will make the arrangements, and know that I will never forgive myself for what I propose, any more than I can forgive any choice I have made in these years."

Rabbit meets your gaze, nods once, and leaves you alone once more.

[[/div]]

------

[[include :scp-wiki:component:image-block name=https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/9/97/Post_Medieval_silver_locket_%28profile%2C_front%2C_profile%2C_reverse%29_%28FindID_767065%29.jpg|caption=**Description**: A locket taken from the collection of the Grenada National Museum. According to the museum's documentation, the locket was found amongst grave debris near Tibeau cemetery on the island of Carriacou. Any name that may have been carved on the headstone found nearest the locket had worn away by time of discovery. Any material that may have been held in the locket had decomposed by time of discovery. Inscribed on the front inside face of the locket are the letters "S. C. Ptrs". The marks on the rear inside face of the locket indicate it was assayed by the assay office in York, England in 1689.|width=1000px]]

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The following entry was recovered from a partially destroyed journal[[footnote]] Believed to belong to Henry Lister, a dye trader known to have owned a draper's shop in Holetown, modern day Barbados, in the 1650s. [[/footnote]] found in the Barbados National Archives. The ship mentioned matches known descriptions of The Calamar Cuadrado.

[[div class="document"]]
Yesterday a strange ship pulled into the harbor: a small vessel with a rather unique masthead. Simply put, it was a squid. The normal ships in the harbor are oft filled with tawdry, buxom depictions of women. So when I saw the ship, my interest was piqued. Two large blue eyes and a mass of orange tentacles. I found its gaze strangely piercing as if it was compelling me to dance and writhe. I could have sworn I saw a glint of metal in its grasp but I didn’t get a good look. Oft when ships pull into the harbor there is a great hubbub as the sailors haul cargo. Though strangely, only a single woman emerged from the ship. Her brown hair reached slightly below her shoulders and she held a single blue-tinted cutlass. She didn’t return by the end of my shift and the ship was long gone by morning today.
[[/div]]

------

During the Foundation seizure of an archaeological site on the island of Tobago, NTF Chi-30 uncovered and retrieved the following document. The site, the remains of a small port settlement in the east of the island, is north of Charlotteville, and dates to a period between known waves of European colonisation in the area. The possibility the site represents a Libertalian Federacy commune is currently under investigation.

[[div class="document"]]
Ship Manifest for the Calamar Cuadrado:
**Date of Departure**: 6/7/1693
**Port of Departure**: Puerto España
**Destination** [Illegible]
**Cargo Manifest**:
[6 Illegible rows]
86 bottles of [Illegible]
8 barrels gunpowder
1 crate of fire opals
7 Calves
[11 Illegible Rows]
**Crew Manifest**: [50 Illegible Rows]
**Passenger Manifest**: One Riichi Sato.
[Illegible]
[[/div]]

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Following the discovery of the above documents, NTF-Chi 30 were directed to survey the northern coast of South America, south-east of Trinidad and Tobago, with the bathymetric LiDAR and sonar equipped to Foundation Research Ship //Piri Reis// in hopes of locating the wreck of the Calamar Cuadrado. They located a wreck roughly 100 km east of Georgetown, Guyana. The attached Department of Archaeology team launched a series of diving expeditions to identify the wreck, and retrieve any surviving artifacts relevant to the Libertalian Federacy research programme.

The initial two man dive team noted the wreck’s distinctive figurehead, appearing to be a squid grasping a cube in its arms, confirming it to be the Calamar Cuadrado. They also noted a series of thaumaturgic runes carved into the ship’s keel and taffrail, likely the reason the wreck has not rotted away in the centuries since its sinking[[footnote]] Work by Department of Archaeology thaumaturges to confirm the function of the runes is ongoing. [[/footnote]]. Having confirmed the identity of the wreck, the dive team returned to the //Piri Reis//.

Future expeditions revealed significantly less damage to the ship’s hull than initially expected, with no notable damage below the waterline, and no clear reasons for the cause of the wreck. Internal investigations revealed no remains, human or anomalous, onboard the wreck.

The artifacts recovered from the wreck are listed below:

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* Two sets of bone dice (believed to be daevite in origin)
* One bronze mirror
* Three sets of silver tableware
* A collection of glass shards, likely broken bottles
* One golden box (recovered from what is believed to be the captain’s quarters)
[[/div]]

The box bears runes similar to the wreck, possibly intended to protect the contents in case of submersion for extended periods of time. Upon opening the box, however, the research team discovered the runes had failed at some point, and the journal within, presumably belonging to Peters, was heavily water damaged. Attempts to recover passages of the text are ongoing. Alongside the journal was an SCP-9014-1 instance, the details of which are recorded below.

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You stand at the wheel of an unfamiliar ship. The handles feel right in your grip, the hardwood worn smooth from years of long service. You loosen your grip and run an equally worn hand across the spokes and to the barrel. Despite its age, it feels stalwart beneath your fingers and a wistful smile cracks the salt-beaten corners of your lips.

Stepping away, you drift to the edge of the quarterdeck and brace against the railings to look down at the ocean below. Your eyes follow the intricacies of the hull. Knots and whorls preserved in perfect detail beneath the lacquered finish. You suppose that you should know who requested such a detail, but a name eludes you. Your grip tightens around the railing, unknown runes barely imprinting on the calloused skin, before pushing away and beginning to wander the length of the craft.

The ship is empty. The buzz and bustle that you feel, without knowing why, should inhabit the weatherdeck is absent, the crow's nest above is silent, even the lapping of the waves feels muted. You stand beside the mizzenmast, bracing yourself against it, and turn your eyes skywards. Even with the sails folded, you can make out the faded edges of an unknown crest. You shake your head and continue on to the forecastle in a haze.

There you stand, for how long you cannot tell, staring out beyond the beautifully carved figurehead, out beyond the horizon, out beyond time. At some point tears begin to fall from your eyes, you do not know when it began, but on noticing you make no move to wipe them away. The evening sun dries them away. A pained wheeze, masquerading as a sigh, escapes your lungs. You muster a smile you do not believe, and then a laugh that you do.

"This is goodbye," the words slip from your throat, hoarse and strained, "I feel I should apologise-- to whom and for why I do not know-- but I cannot," silence is your only answer, "This thing of ours, whatever it should be, does not end here. A story never truly has an end, after all, merely the moment the teller stops to talk. I must have heard that once. From where I do not know," you drag down a sharp and rattling breath, "Tell the story I have forgotten, I must have faith that it is worth telling. And in its telling, let me live again, for just another phrase. I am not a man to beg, I should think, but if I must, I shall."

The sun is getting low, and for just a moment a flash of green light blooms upon its crown.

"Remember me, friend I do not know. Remember us."

[[/div]]

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[[include :scp-wiki:component:license-box]]
> **Filename:** Doblone di Filippo V
> **Author:** CNG
> **License:** CC BY SA 2.5
> **Source Link:** https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Doblone_di_Filippo_V.jpg

> **Filename:** Post Medieval silver locket (profile, front, profile, reverse) (FindID 767065)
> **Author:** Birmingham Museums Trust, Vic Allnatt, 2016-08-16 16:26:51
> **License:** CC BY 2.0
> **Source Link:** https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Post_Medieval_silver_locket_(profile,_front,_profile,_reverse)_(FindID_767065).jpg
[[include :scp-wiki:component:license-box-end]]

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