/r/undeadthequeen

Link to article: /r/undeadthequeen.

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[[include :scp-wiki:theme:broken-masquerade]]
[[include :scp-wiki:component:toggle-sidebar]]
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[[/module]]
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[[include :scp-wiki:component:author-label-source start=--
|name=Fish Crater]]
The Evil Queen of the East is dead! The Evil Queen of the East is dead!
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Fish's
[https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/me-joined-military| Author Page!]
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Afto's
[https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/aftokrator| Author Page!]
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**About Community**
[[/div]]
[[div style="border-left:solid 1px black;border-right:solid 1px black;border-bottom:solid 1px black;border-radius:0px 0px 4px 4px;padding:12px;"]]
r/undeadthequeen is a subreddit dedicated to bringing back and reinstating Queen Elizabeth II.
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808.1k
[[size 80%]]**The Queen's Detail**[[/size]]
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----
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[[size 110%]]##898989|**Created Sep 8, 2014**##[[/size]]
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[[size 110%]]##898989|**Restricted Posting**##[[/size]]
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[[size 90%]]**##898989|📌 PINNED BY MODERATORS##**[[/size]]
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[[size 95%]]##898989|Posted by [# u/The_RealSlimshady08] [[span style="background:#ccc;color:black;padding:3px;border-radius:3px;"]]Certified Rave Grobber[[/span]] 8 years ago##[[/size]]
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[[span class="shit"]]Announcements[[/span]] [[size 140%]]##00247d|What the FUCK is this subreddit?##[[/size]]
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I suppose this is a thing now.

Greetings, Unveiled world (long time coming, I'm surprised it hadn't happened sooner). I'm probably gonna be the primary writer in this subreddit, since most of my "coworkers" aren't the most technologically versed. I am a practicing dark arts historian, Wanderer's Library spelunker, and a British enthusiast, in every possible interpretation. These are my primary eccentricities, the axioms that I believe to be the most relevant information for the purposes of this forum.

We prevent the Queen of England's untimely demise.
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[[size 140%]]##00247d|Who's "we"?##[[/size]]
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In 1907, Edward VII prophesied a future in which he predicted his own death, along with millions of innocent people in a series of back to back wars. Though this was normal behavior for him (he was a doomsayer in private), he decided to set up the MI6 and MI666, the latter you can read all about on Wikipedia, and the former of which were, at the time, glorified bodyguards.

We are MI666, the British Occult Service. At the time, our inclusion was of very little note. We were a spare detail attached to the primary force, a subdivision of the Secret Intelligence Service, hardly taken seriously, much like our UIU cousins under the FBI. However, it is something of a misfortune when we happened upon our success as a paranormal group.

Later, Edward VII would be proven correct, dying in 1909, forcing the throne onto his son, George VI, who then had to face both World Wars, roughly coinciding with the Seventh Occult War. Our origin as a prophesied entity was inverted as we were thrust into every branch of the British Armies, both queer and status. They believed we could see the future, and so we had to learn really fast, and to our credit, we managed to scrub together a working theory. I'm willing to bet MI666 contributed to more than its fair share of key Ally victories.
@@ @@
[[size 140%]]##00247d|That's cool and all, but what does that have to do with the Queen?##[[/size]]
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In 1953, one month after the Queen of England was freshly crowned, she wandered onto the street and was struck by two double decker buses simultaneously, one on each side, making the world's first royal sandwich. The buses pretty much got away unscathed, but the Queen...

Now, the problem isn't that Her Majesty died, far from it. While we're supposed to protect the throne, we could not in good conscience disobey a direct order of the Queen, on account of the curse-tiles in our liver. If she deliberately orders us to turn around and sing the anthem as she tosses herself off a bridge, that's her prerogative. We must let her die. However, we foresaw her death far in the future, and we knew for a fact that the Queen would have been the longest serving ruler, succumbing only to old age.

This death //wasn't natural//. It wasn't supposed to //be//. But for some reason, the universe saw fit for her to die, and we called the universe out on it. So we spent the next four weeks lying about her death, bribing anyone even remotely close to the scene of the murder, and even installing a doppelgänger during a particularly tough spot. In the end, some morticians managed to stitch her back together a la Frankenstein, with none of the scars to boot.

We knew she would die from natural causes at ninety six. Until then, we had to keep her alive.
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[[size 95%]]##898989|Posted by [# u/The_RealSlimshady08] [[span style="background:#ccc;color:black;padding:3px;border-radius:3px;"]]Certified Rave Grobber[[/span]] 8 years ago##[[/size]]
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[[span class="shit"]]History[[/span]] [[size 140%]]##00247d|The Double Dare-U Dependent's Discharges##[[/size]]
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As of writing this article, three attempts have been made on the Queen's life, all of which have failed. In 1970, while traveling by train, a log was placed on the railroad tracks in order to derail and kill her. The train was too slow for that to happen though, and the culprit, if there ever was one, was never found. The other two occurred in 1981, and... well, I'll explain. The first was done by 17yo Marcus Sarjeant, who shot blanks and was subsequently arrested for treason. The second was 17yo Christopher John Lewis who fired through a window and missed, who was then committed to a psychiatry ward.

What you don't know is that 1964 was the Chinese Zodiac year of the Dragon, and all these 17yo men who really wanted to kill the Queen with a gun were born underneath the passing of the Dragon King. 1981 was year of the Rooster, and they had celestial //beef//, the fallout of which caused these people to go and seek vengeance against those blessed by the Sun God. It just so happens that the Queen received a jade ring from a Chinese immigrant which apparently possessed the blessing. Combined with her natural charisma and all the publicity surrounding the jade, the Queen became an irresistible target for the sons of the Dragon King.

We had to stop thirty four separate instances of boys with guns, and on the final day of October, when Her Majesty was in transit to the Capital of Germany for a meeting with the Prime Minister, her private plane had somehow gained a stowaway skeleton crew of twenty five 17yo men, who fired so many rounds into the passenger area that they inadvertently took out the entire crew, including the pilot, while somehow //missing the Queen entirely//. Instead, what eventually kills the Queen is the plane nosediving straight into a plot of farmland in the Netherlands, and we had to dig through over four acres, //downwards//, into old, frozen dirt (surprise! It's winter!), and somehow come out the other side with what we believed to be the liquified remains of the Queen.

Now, imagine if you will, how are we supposed to put the Queen back together?

Here's how. A cast iron mold of the Queen from a previous reanimation ([# see Mecha-Lizabeth]), in which we poured the fluids into, refroze, and then stuffed with as many STEM cells as we could possibly fit like a fucked up popsicle. Frankly, we're pretty sure half of the Queen was male in origin, but who cares? We were lucky to find anything at all. Plus, the procedure doesn't care two bits about where the material comes from, as long as we had Her Majesty's uterus to catalyze the ritual. Don't ask, long story.

Anyways, we managed to get her back in two days.
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[[size 95%]]##898989|Posted by [# u/The_RealSlimshady08] [[span style="background:#ccc;color:black;padding:3px;border-radius:3px;"]]Certified Rave Grobber[[/span]] 8 years ago##[[/size]]
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[[span class="shit"]]History[[/span]] [[size 140%]]##00247d|Kaye Ballard and Frank Sinatra Sends their Regards##[[/size]]
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Did you know that the UK has its own space program?

Like every post-war space-faring nation, we were primarily interested in space research for military reasons, but all of you people in the future know that it pales in comparison to the USA and USSR space programs. Most projects would end up being collaborative with the EU and whatnot, the exception being...

The BLACK ARROW (R3) is a British satellite carrier rocket, three stages, developed during the 1960s. Of the five satellite launches, launched between 1969-1971, the first three were unsuccessful, and never made the rounds. On its fourth flight, the UK celebrated as we placed the Prospero satellite into low-orbit, a foreshadowing of what the public thought would be a future sky dominated by British engineering. A British satellite put into space on a British developed rocket, in bold faced adversity to the Cold War tech race. God bless, right?

Exuberant, parliament moved to make a fifth flight for the budding Joan system, a foreign satellite monitoring system for the express purpose of protecting British beaches, backed by Liberal Party Maria Fyfee on a thirty second GB News segment. 300 million euros later and we had another working replica. Significantly cheaper as well, since we already knew how to do the whole thing, sans some minor tweaks to perfect the system.

Such as the inclusion of the Queen as a power source.

Not literally, of course. They didn't strap her in like the Matrix.

Specifically, the spacecraft applies an interesting religious based supplicant energy system via a series of chalk outlines. Not only is it cost effective, its also extremely powerful. After all, the throne is a symbol of religious power. In order to justify monarchal rule, they were blessed by God under the authority of the Pope and given the supreme right to rule, and in the modern era, this still applies. People fucking adore the Queen, and to capitalize on this, they borrowed a healthy number of Ursa-Daeva artifacts from the CHASON in the Council of 108 and created BLACK ARROW (A1).

For a one month period preceding the launch, they would do everything in their power to increase the faith in the Queen, succeeding immensely. At the rate they were going, they wouldn't need fuel for the rocket launch, and wouldn't you know it, they dropped it entirely. It was an entirely pragmatic decision as well. Fuel made up nearly 90% of the mass on the ship, so if they could get rid of all that excess mass and fly the equivalent of a hollow aluminum can, why wouldn't they?

Then comes launch day, on a Sunday afternoon, as planned.

None of us ever expected the Queen to be immolated by her own faith.

Underneath the rocket launch pad were a series of concrete tunnels, hosting a number of terminal control centers. Her Majesty is privy to a front row seat right underneath the rocket. The operator notes that the blast doors are half closed. A second later, a aethereal blast of pseudo-rocket fuel propels itself through //five floors// of concrete hallways, incinerating the attending crew, news reporter, and the Queen herself.

Miraculously, the auxiliary equipment, save for the stuff in the hallways, were entirely uncharred. Kilometers of electrical wiring, liquid hydrogen pumps, all fine. Still, we had about an hour and thirty minutes, maybe two hours if we can stall long enough, to find a way to un-ash the Queen. This one was admittedly a new one, and one that nearly stumped us. Accidental beheadings in France and drowning in the Nile River was one thing, this is the first time we've had so little material to work with.

As it turns out, the best way to get out of a maze is to go back the way you came. We revisited one of the BLACK ARROW prototypes; functional, but fired white smoke that smelled of earl grey and biscuits (which, coincidentally enough, was perfect for our purposes). Our tinkering managed to refocus the engine to basically suck out the worship-fire out of the ashes. Here comes the trickier bit. All our advertising had been focused on Her Majesty's image from the waist up. Stamps, fine china, posters, all sorts. Had we attempted to bring her back there and then, we'd only get the front top half of the Queen, and that would be unpleasant. Our only solution was a stik-n-forget-me sticker printer that we modified to shit out every single body part of the Queen at every angle, and we stuck it on every surface we could find. The British Pound would have a pair of her bare legs for a year before we fully recalled them all.

We managed to bring her back from bone ash, albeit with some leftover traces of every dress she ever wore in public fused to her skin. It took the surgeons 52 hours to completely excise the silk that fused to her skin in the reconstitution, but she pulled through just fine, and five years younger to boot, thanks to PR.
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[[size 95%]]##898989|Posted by [# u/qwerty1902] 8 years ago##[[/size]]
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[[span class="shit"]]History[[/span]] [[size 140%]]##00247d|Solution for Her Majesty's Death in 1983.##[[/size]]
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Her head was crushed into her chest cavity, we pulled it out, restarted her heart, and she was fine.

**Edit:** Sorry, that was my coworker. Not a man of many words, that one. Here's what actually happened.

It was a fine afternoon, Britain was still celebrating their victory in the Falklands, and the Queen was having a nice stroll in the gardens. Some of our subterranean sensors, primed to detect abnormal seismic activity, picked up an unidentified object burrowing in the general direction of the Queen. By the time it had broke through the thaumic barrier under Buckingham Palace, a security detail had already been dispatched to evacuate Her Majesty.

As it turned out, our uninvited guest was a rather large pile of rocks held together by a large red gem, embedded in its torso, with smaller gemstones distributed throughout its constituent mass. Impervious to gunfire, it scuttled its way into the Palace, impolitely breaking through doorframes and walls before stumbling across the main vault. Now, MI666 had two problems. One, they haven't been able to kill the rock creature. Two, the "secure location" the Queen had been evacuated to was that very vault.

The entity tore through the vault door with relative ease, incapacitating two of our agents as it tossed the crumpled blocks of steel aside. The Queen was metaphorically and literally frozen in fear as the magnetostatic-equipped reinforcements flipped on, forcing everything but the monster to be still. The stone behemoth proceeded to bash the Queen's head in and reached over her, as it became apparent that the target was not Her Majesty's life, but rather the Crown Jewels, locked behind a glass display cabinet she stood in front of. Yes, the jewels in the Tower of London are fakes, besides the point.

Satisfied with the plunder of the royal regalia, the entity breaks apart it, retrieving the two largest, and places it against its crotch area before barreling away from the scene of the crime. And it completely disappears, leaving behind only a pseudo-dullahan Queen, a plundered vault, and a whole lot of rubble to clean up after. Only then did we, as my coworker so eloquently put it, "pulled her head out of her chest cavity".

We were also ordered not to retrieve the jewels.
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[[size 95%]]##898989|Posted by [# u/The_RealSlimshady08] [[span style="background:#ccc;color:black;padding:3px;border-radius:3px;"]]Certified Rave Grobber[[/span]] 8 years ago##[[/size]]
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[[span class="shit"]]History[[/span]] [[size 140%]]##00247d|Her Majesty, Stack Overflow##[[/size]]
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The Ship of Theseus thought experiment is a common water cooler discussion, something newbies would talk about after the first few times they had to put her back together from scratch. It's not really a primary concern for us. Yet, we must ensure that the Queen who dies for good is, with no uncertainty, the same vehicular regicide victim from 1953. It is literally written in stone, as it was tradition for doomsayers to record their prophecies on marble tablets.

Way back in the 70s, R&D whipped up a soul-detector in an effort to root out Soviet spies in the country, but was relegated to the depths of the National Archives once the CIA perfected their little mind control project. Y'know, the one everyone knows about. Just in case the complete annihilation of Her Majesty's corporeal form ever occurred, we had to make a backup copy of her incorporeal one. 500 copies, to be exact, spread out across the British Isles for emergencies. You see, a clone of the Queen could never be //The// Queen without the presence of her soul, it'd just be a run-of-the-mill meat puppet (much like half of Parliament).

And so, every time the Queen was brought back from ash and dust, she would be given a copy of her soul after we got rid of whatever happened to be inhabiting the new body. This wasn't an issue for the most part, save for that one time we opted into robo-Elizabeth. It was easier and cheaper for people to forget that the Queen short-circuited in the rain than it was for us to rebuild her from the bone up every time. As for her soul, we managed to digitize it into a floppy disk inserted directly into her spine.

We even got Y2K covered.

See, software engineers knew about Y2K decades before it would happen, before it even entered the public consciousness, and the Queen's mainframe was built with this as a prerequisite. What we couldn't (or didn't) account for was how a digitized soul would react to this. Tampering with souls once uploaded is messy business, so we tried to quintuply the tick speed of some alter-Queens to the mid-21st century in a retrofitted red telephone booth. What else could we have used? The booth was both familiar to the Queen and our most advanced server at the time.

The experiment proved... inconclusive, to say the least. The only thing we learned was that we should never send souls past 2037 AD, which was something we already knew, and just never confirmed. We couldn't exactly bring the Queen offline just for New Year's Day either, what with the vitally important rituals necessary to ensure the yearly survival of the British state. So we endured. And by "we", we mean the Queen mostly.

The Queen fell at midnight. Keeled over where she stood. We had operatives in Her Majesty's security detail who checked up on her while helping her to her feet, and instead of a grateful Elizabeth II, they were met with a very confused, terrified, and highly aggressive Queen Victoria. Luckily, someone managed to snap on a pair of cuffs, and the ensuing kerfuffle was scrubbed from the media almost immediately, overriding the public's memory of the incident via a far more memorable lack of public toilets during the event.

We later attempted to exorcize Queen Victoria from Her Majesty's body after the celebrations, but she was one tough cow, her necromancy notwithstanding. Making full use of the Queen's titanium and tungsten carbide endoskeleton, Her Former Majesty broke out of custody and sicced multiple Roman skeletons on the aforementioned security detail. She proceeded to run rampant in the London night for a few hours, raising hell from Westminster Abbey to throw MI666 off her tracks, myself included. I still have scars from when Newton dropped a bus on my unit. Hours later, we cornered her in the Royal Mausoleum while she was trying to find her husband's grave with a shovel wielding Charles Darwin in tow.  

So stood MI666, locked in a standoff with a feral Empress in a graveyard of Princes and Kings, grenade launchers and hexcasters in helicopters. At this point, negotiations were way off the table, but we were still at an impasse. As Her Majesty's protectors, we could not in good conscience do harm to her material form, much less blow her up. Curse-tiles and all that, not to mention the //paperwork//. The Late Queen, taking advantage of our hesitation, began reciting some unholy scripture in tongues that were not dissimilar to German. No clue what the spell would do to us, but her eyes began to glow, which is //never// a good sign.

Then, a fireball comes tearing through the night sky, narrowly clipping the rotors of my helicopter and instantly decimating the Queen.

This piece of Deus Ex Machina is not lost on me. According to the official report, a satellite had drifted abnormally far away from its regular orbit, survived atmospheric re-entry in one piece, completely bypassed our early warning systems, and landed squarely on top of the Late Queen. It was as if [https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-2820 the universe] had spoken its mind with absolute clarity, and said that it wanted Her Late Majesty's dead.

After that whole incident, all iterations of the Queen were required by policy to be made of meat. We did kept the digitized souls though, since they proved to be more portable than soul orbs.
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[[size 95%]]##898989|Posted by [# u/The_RealSlimshady08] [[span style="background:#ccc;color:black;padding:3px;border-radius:3px;"]]Certified Rave Grobber[[/span]] 8 years ago##[[/size]]
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[[span class="shit"]]History[[/span]] [[size 140%]]##00247d|That One Scary Ass Moment where I had to Fight Off a Corgi##[[/size]]
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Okay everyone, this one is incredibly personal because I was there.

Over the course of Her Majesty's long life, she was evidently, inordinately fond of corgis, a well documented genetic phenomenon. However, they were almost... nightmarishly omnipresent. They would appear in dreams, out of the corners of eyes, in the reflection of water, and just //barely at random// for it to be dismissed as general anxiety. When I stood watch during her duodecennial inspection of Big Ben, there was a corgi in the hotel room, hidden underneath the love chair.

Whenever the Queen would wave at the crowd on the way to her private plane off to some foreign place, a corgi would sometimes enter the plane before her, just out of sight of all the cameras and eyes. When I brushed my teeth, I would constantly angle my head in the mirror, since my coworkers would claim that they would see a corgi in the shower shelves, only to find nothing.

After one particularly harrowing experience where I had to negotiate a hostage situation with a desperate man, I was tired. The incident took over seven hours to resolve, what with the constant bomb squads having to redo all their work after being sent back in time, and having to be present as they diffuse each bomb within one second of them tripping. I had forgotten to foretell the chances of success, but I had known that success did not necessarily guarantee my survival. At the time, I was fully committed, and I imagine that it was ironically the thing that help me survive the ordeal.

That is to say, I slept like a god damn log after it. Didn't matter I was still on duty, I deserved it. But the corgis were watching.

I had a nightmare of the incident, except this time, everything was replaced with a single corgi spinning in space. I still had the same nerve shot anxiety around the ticking time bomb, except it was replaced with the sound of a thirsty dog. It runs around in circles, or flies. I cannot tell. I was inside the corgi, shooting other corgis to prevent the corgi from exploding the corgi, and I cannot stress how much it felt like a //recreation// of these events, rather than a //corruption//.

Something about those fucking corgis correlated with some kind of threat. When I woke up, drenched in sweat, I had no reason to believe this wasn't a godawful premonition of sorts. I quickly got dressed, slathered on deodorant, left my flat, and arrived at a BOS station to report the news. A short lady acting as a liaison told me that they've received nearly a dozen similar reports, and that the information was snaking up the chain of command. I explain to her that it's already too damn late if we got a premonition.

I quickly give up and steal a motorcycle, and for the next two hours, I would be filled with so much adrenaline and nervous energy that it would all be a blur. All I knew was that I, along with several other MI666 were snaking their way through the London streets to get to the palace, collectively breaking so many traffic laws that a speedster would blush.

We get to the front entrance of the palace grounds, and its already been cleared of visitors. Thankfully, it was on a slow month, so not many tourists were on Buckingham, and the Americans were used to seeing armored cars on manicured lawns. We show them our ID cards and we're let in. White bodybags are already laid out neatly, carefully framing the newly deceased. I inspect the closest one, and its covered in orange fur and grotesque musculature. The bone structure was warped, the legs jutting backwards like a lightning bolt and the jawline extended. But the eyes, like black marbles...

The other corpses were all the same, shot dead. Big men with big guns, surrounding the palace. What concerned me was that this was a blockade, not an assault. Eventually, one of my coworkers relay to me about the situation. Another hostage incident, except this time its Her Majesty. I ask what the threat is. It's the corgis. Of course it's the fucking corgis, what do they want. We don't know. How do we know it's a hostage problem. Drones. Fucking drones.

It was a fucking thing and a half, and I swear to honest god I went psycho. I grabbed two men from the blockade and went down a side path into the sewers. We're methodical but efficient, sweeping with almost third eye precision. I believe it had to do with me awakening to my latent prescience abilities, but I could not give less of a fuck at the moment. We finally open up to an underground well where the Queen keeps all of her gold, breaking into the palace via a secret wall. Usually, it's the other way around, so it was a welcome change.

Now that we're inside, it's immediately apparent this was a bad idea. Corgis originally began as a hunting dog, and now that they've received limbs, they're stunningly fast and deadly. A howling erupts from around the corner, and a wave of echoes follow. They knew we were here, and if we didn't do something, we would literally be hound to death. One of the big men pisses themselves and goes back the way we came, and the other starts firing into the walls with a shotgun, wasting ammo. I knew he would survive, so I leave him to his own devices and start following a path straight to Her Majesty. I would cross five more were-corgis, routing them when possible, firing when cornered.

I find myself in front of the Queen's chambers, panting like a motherfucker. Somewhere along the way, I was bit in the leg, ripping clean my right foot, and I'm limping along. I knew that if it were viral, I was definitely transforming. My spine felt like it was ripping clean from the meat, I was gnashing my teeth as it sharpened, and my clothes were stretched taut. I would claw at my chest and arms, feverish.

I punch open the door, my weapon too small for my hands. And there was the Queen, larger than the Queen sized mattress she slept on, next to the corpse of a half eaten corgi behemoth. We roar at each other and I dive into her face, trying to claw out her eyes.

She takes one hand off the corpse and slashes my back, ripping me free from her face. I slam into a cabinet, smashing it into splinters, and it is further decimated when she balls her fist and slams downward, punching me through the floor. I land in a long hallway filled with stone statues as she begins ripping through the bedroom floor, making an opening for herself. I scramble away, claws clicking at stone. She lands on her legs and one arm, the other reaching out at me as I smash the bust of Queen Elizabeth I into her chest.

She would grab me again, this time hurling me through a wall into a neighboring ballroom. I smash through at least three tables, into a service cart filled with various alcohols. Glass and alcohol cuts into my skin. It burned into my wounds, and I would thrash in pain. I could distantly hear the slow, angry footstep of fur on marble, and as sure as hell she was above me, I slashed upwards. A chunk of flesh coats my face, and she howls loud enough to burst my ear drums. I start swinging at random, ripping apart architecture and occasional patches of fur.

A helicopter swings into the background, armed with two machineguns, and starts ripping into the ballroom. Giant clouds of dust and smoke coat us, and I continue to slash at the Queen. I can feel a bullet rip through my waist, bisecting me. I somehow pivot onto her back, my jaw firmly clamped around her shoulders. She can't reach me, her body too big and inflexible. She starts to half limp, half jog, head first into the opposite side of the ballroom. We break through, several walls, and I could feel us gaining height. Somehow, she runs far enough that we end up on a multi-floor foyer.

She stands at the edge, and she leaps off the parapet, plummeting back first off the balcony. Momentary weightlessness, and I am crushed under her weight, and just like that, the Queen had killed herself under a spiteful deadlock. I am slowly surrounded by paramedics, field agents, and soldiers, stared at through unblinking eyes.

To this day, I am unsure how they resolved this event.

The Queen had died that day, and so had I. Yet I was expendable, and //yet//, here I am, still alive.

I don't know the circumstances under which I had cheated death. I choose to believe I never died in the first place. That it was all a horrible nightmare. After all, someone amnesticized all the witnesses, and everything that was destroyed was fixed so thoroughly it might as well have never happened.

Overall, this was my second most traumatic experience working for MI666.
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