Today’s episode of our Quaran-tainment Series features the first chapter of Amber Skies, an ongoing story by @normal-horoscopes. The full story can be found on AO3, and you can support the author on Patreon.
Narration, editing, and original music (“Amber Skies: Intro” and “Amber Skies: Main Theme”) by @phinnsy.
Cover art by @terrafey, used with permission. (Sorry for the cropping, SoundCloud forces you to...) View more of terrafey’s art on Instagram, and leave a tip on Ko-fi.
If you’d like to hear us do more of Bones’ fantastic story, let us know! I’d love to do a full on multi-voice production of it.
I know others have asked and gotten the go-ahead, but I don't want to assume: would you mind if my podcast did a reading of Amber Skies (just the first chapter, for now)? It's an SCP podcast with a large following, but we occasionally do readings of other things we think our audience would enjoy.
It’s day 50 of freeze-dried beef stroganoff. Doctor Beckett swallows the meat and rice with a grimace. He’s made a challenge out of it, seeing how long he can eat the same meal without cracking. This is probably as far as he’ll go with this dish, beating his previous record with the chicken curry. At least if he stops here, he’ll have plenty of the beef left to break up the nutrient paste and vitamin pills, once the rest of the prepackaged meals run out.
I’m not looking forward to that day when I find this swill a treat, he thinks.
He looks out of the porthole, imagining the ventilation fans as a breeze blowing across the lunar plain. Not for the first time, he wishes he had tried to smuggle in just one pack of cigarettes. It wouldn’t have done any harm, in the end. Werner would have lost his mind if he’d found out, though.
Werney, the sour-faced, stuck-up bastard. Of all the people to be shot into space with, the O5s had to send me with Site 19’s tie-on-casual-Fridays Werney, the guy who thinks putting sugar in his cereal is the height of adventure. Maybe it’s for the best he went off. Living together, one of us would have by now.
Not a word. Not even an I’m-just-going-out-and-may-be-some-time. You didn’t even shake my fucking hand before you left.
God damn you, Werney.
Beckett thinks back to that day a few months ago, seeing Doctor Werner walking through the craters, heading towards the horizon. Opening a radio channel. “Hey, Werney, where are you going?”
The last words of Man. “Hey, Werney, where are you going?” Jesus Christ.
You didn’t have to explain yourself, or say something deep and meaningful. Hell, “Goodbye” would have been deep and meaningful enough for anyone. I’d have been satisfied with that.
If I’d gone after you, would you have come back?
No, you wouldn’t have come back. That’s why I didn’t say anything else.
God damn you, you bastard.
It was ironic, that gloomy, unsmiling Doctor Werner was the first one to snap, because in the end, it was because he was the positive one. He was the optimist. He believed the briefing from the O5s, that they were to get ready for the next wave of staff, the pioneers of New Humanity rising from the ashes. Even when they both knew no more shuttles were coming, he still thought the Foundation had something up its sleeve, that some portal would appear and the O5s would pop out to give them medals and take them back to the world as it was before.
I guess the day he walked out was when he knew we were the last ones left. I’m still here because, in the end, I was less hopeful than sour old Werney. What was the point of hoping, after they launched LEGIONNAIRE?
Beckett thinks back to the day when everything changed, when it started ascending from the gases of Jupiter. The President on television with the Overseers beside him, the wailing in the streets. The day he told Adrienne where he really worked.
And then, the miracles. Watching LEGIONNAIRE’s first test launch. Jimmy Kimmel making electromagnetic pulse jokes. His nieces and nephews, drawing crayon pictures of rockets and explosions and arguing about which missile was the best. The Pope leading the faithful in prayer to the world’s nuclear bombs in St Peter’s Square, the Lord’s angels made metal.
An end to wars. An end to pointless squabbles and petty politics. All the negative energies of mankind turned to purpose, with an outside threat so faceless, so impersonal, that all vitriol and hatred directed towards it became noble.
Most of the job involved disgust, fear, and at best, grim satisfaction, if things were well done. But those few months – I was proud of the Foundation. I was proud to say I worked there. I was proud to be a human being.
Maybe that was worth it.
Maybe I should be grateful to Werney. Now I can say I’m the last man on the moon. The anti-Armstrong to your anti-Aldrin. One small step for a man, one giant end for mankind.
Another half-remembered memory, of a bright-eyed graduating class at MIT, as Aldrin walks in, telling America’s newest engineers about dreaming and boldly going, cheers and screams from the crowd drowning out any substance of the speech. Shoving past friends and holding out a pen and scrap of paper, the prize following him to Boeing, Cape Canaveral and Site 19. Now returned to dust, like everything else. Suddenly, Beckett has an idea, and heads to the base storerooms.
It’s not like I have anything better to do.
...
A few hours later, the rover is loaded with supplies, and peels out of the garage, the door silently sliding closed behind it. A set of footprints trails into the distance, but the rover bounces in the opposite direction.
He dreams of the first time he went into space, and the last time. Armstrong, Aldrin and Collins are with him. Armstrong, Aldrin, Collins, Beckett, Werner. The last manned mission to the moon. The last mission anywhere.
The rover comes to a stop, the beep of the autopilot waking Beckett from his slumber. He straps on his helmet, tapping the seals. The airlock opens with a hiss, and he bounds down the stairs. The lander is in front of him, flag standing stiffly at attention beside it. Beckett runs a glove over its metal legs, so awkward-looking to modern eyes. His hand comes to rest over Aldrin’s signature.
Did you ever think something like this would happen, Mr Aldrin?
If you’d gone ten years earlier, would it have changed anything?
What if you’d never gone at all?
Beckett suddenly feels weary, and begins to wonder why he came. He stands there, imagining the Stars and Stripes fluttering and the anthem playing, until his oxygen warning begins to sound, beneath a black sky and brown Earth.
He sleeps again on the journey back, dreaming of drawings of da Vinci’s flying machines, Florentine streets, chapel ceilings, drinking red wine with Adrienne.
...
When he returns, it’s one o’clock in the morning, Greenwich Mean Time. He’s missed his daily call, not that it makes a difference any more. Still, it’s best to keep to routines in this place. He boots up the base computer, cycling through the Sites. The live – well, one-second-delayed-live- camera feeds are still active, and he wonders why he needs to see the pictures as he calls, as if they were placed there by a mocking tormentor. Beckett brings up Site 19. The entrance guard tower has collapsed on top of the central building, and it looks like the cafeteria is now gone. The sky is a swirling, roaring mass of dust and sulfur, masonry and debris bouncing past like tumbleweeds, the leftovers of the human race.
Same ol’, same ol’.
He taps the transmitter button.
THIS IS AN AUTOMATED MESSAGE FROM SITE NINETEEN. WE HAVE A CATEGORY ONE SITEWIDE FAILURE. CONTACT ALTERNATE COMMAND FOR ORDERS.
Hello, Site 19. Hello, overseers. Still not coming to get me, yeah?
Maybe Werney stepped into that portal and found his way back there. Maybe he finally found his sense of humour, and messed with the computer before he left. Everything’s back to normal there, and everyone’s sitting in the cafeteria right now, preparing my surprise party.
Werney, can you hear me? I know you can hear me, you bastard. Go back into that portal and come back here right now, you hear me? I want you back here.
“Werney, you bastard, I want you back,” Beckett mutters. “O5s, you can come here too, you hear me? You’ve got some explaining to do, and I don’t give a shit how much more you get paid or what super powers you have.”
THIS IS AN AUTOMATED MESSAGE FROM SITE NINETEEN. WE HAVE A CATEGORY ONE SITEWIDE FAILURE. CONTACT ALTERNATE COMMAND FOR ORDERS.
“I want fucking Werner and the Overseers!” Beckett shouts.
THIS IS AN AUTOMATED MESSAGE FROM SITE NINETEEN. WE HAVE A CATEGORY ONE SITEWIDE FAILURE. CONTACT ALTERNATE COMMAND FOR ORDERS.
“I want my old job back! I want my desk and my office!”
THIS IS AN AUTOMATED MESSAGE FROM SITE NINETEEN. WE HAVE A CATEGORY ONE SITEWIDE FAILURE. CONTACT ALTERNATE COMMAND FOR ORDERS.
“I want my house and my car and – and my lawnmower! You can buy me a new fucking lawnmower! I want to see my brother and mom and dad! I want Adrienne back! I want a bottle of wine to drink with her, I want to see Italy again, I want – I want to see a real fucking ocean again! Not a fucking moon ocean, a real one, with real fucking water!”
THIS IS AN AUTOMATED MESSAGE FROM SITE NINETEEN. WE HAVE A CATEGORY ONE SITEWIDE FAILURE. CONTACT ALTERNATE COMMAND FOR ORDERS.
Beckett slumps over the computer console, shaking with sobs.
“I want to turn on a TV and – and – and – see you say Legionnaire worked, it blew up that alien piece of shit, and it’s not the end of the world any more, it’s just es-see-pea two-three-nine-nine, it’s neutral – neutra – neutralized, and we sent that thing to hell.”
“I want my fucking world back.”
RECEIVING TRANSMISSION.
Beckett sits bolt upright, and grasps the seat armrest to steady himself.
NEW VIDEO FEED ACTIVE.
A colossal mass of alien machinery is on screen, hovering amidst the roiling atmosphere, covered in scorch marks from a thousand atomic blasts.
He falls back into the chair. Not his miraculous deliverance, just the ever-fickle voice-recognition software.
RECEIVING TRANSMISSION.
Another surge of adrenaline lurches him forward. With trembling hands, he presses the transmitter button.
All primary systems destroyed: Mission aborted
All primary systems destroyed: Mission aborted
All primary systems destroyed: Mission aborted
There is nobody around who can tell if the last man on the Moon is laughing or crying.
===
[The voice of the Doctor Beckett was provided by @iridethedirt.]
===
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Special Containment Procedures: SCP-073 is to be kept in a two (2) room cell furnished with all non-organic furniture and items, and a bathroom. Subject is allowed to freely wander the facility and eat in the main canteen. A tracking device has been attached to SCP-073's person and is not to be removed. Subject is disallowed any contact with the surface, and is not allowed outside the facility. Subject is allowed no contact with plant-based SCPs under any circumstances. Violence is not to be used against SCP-073 under any circumstances.
SCP-073 is currently kept in Site-17.
Description: SCP-073 appears to be a heavily-tanned male of Arabic or Middle Eastern descent in his early thirties, 185 cm (6'1") tall and 75 kg (165 lbs), with black hair and blue eyes. Arms, legs, spinal cord, and shoulder blades of the subject appear to have been replaced with artificial versions of unknown make and metal. Subject only takes notice of this when it is pointed out, and states that it has no knowledge of how, why, or when these replacements took place, stating it had had them as long as it could remember. There is a symbol engraved into the forehead of the subject, which appears to be of Sumerian origin. Symbol has as of yet been untranslated, and subject appears distressed when the symbol is mentioned at all, refusing to speak on it. Subject does need to eat and drink on a regular basis, but is strictly carnivorous owing to its effect on plant-based items.
SCP-073, who refers to itself as "Cain", is generally polite and genial to all who speak to it, though it has been described as being cold and somewhat mechanical in its speech. It is very helpful, and enjoys aiding personnel in their daily actions, whatever they may be. It has highly detailed knowledge of ancient to recent events in history, and most commonly spoken languages in the world, including ones that have since died out. Subject has professed to having a photographic memory, remembering word-for-word all text in an eight-hundred-page dictionary that was flicked through in a minute and a half. It has scored above average in all intelligence tests given to it.
SCP-073's presence is inimical to any and all life grown in soil, causing death to any such life within a twenty (20) meter radius. Any land SCP-073 has walked on (and any within the twenty [20] meter radius) becomes barren as all anaerobic bacteria dies, rendering the soil incapable of supporting life until new bacteria are introduced. Anything that is derived from soil-grown life, such as wood and paper, immediately rots and disintegrates upon touch of SCP-073. Further affected derivatives include anything hydroponically grown.
Violence directed towards SCP-073 reflects any damage inflicted on SCP-073 directly back onto the attacker, although SCP-073 visibly remains unharmed. This applies to any damage directed at SCP-073. Attempts to get tissue and blood samples have proven futile: when the procedure was initiated, personnel carrying out the action felt the sensation of whatever was applied to SCP-073, and wound up with a sample of their own blood or tissue, despite the fact that ''all actions were directed solely at SCP-073''. Indirect damage through a medium also results in the person perpetrating the action receiving the wounds caused. Although SCP-073 receives no actual harm from damage to its person, it has stated that it still feels the pain of the action, and has politely asked researchers to abstain from overly harmful actions to its person.
Additional Notes: SCP-073 was found in the New York Police Department in 19██, having been taken in after subject had been found amidst the bodies of several violent gang members. SCP-073 told police that the gang had attempted to make sport of it, but became angry and attempted to kill SCP-073, resulting in their own demise. SCP-073 was incarcerated, and was deemed a "John Doe" when NYPD could not find any information on it. SCP-073 came to the attention of the Foundation through a routine inspection of "John Does", and was subsequently released into our custody.
Addendum 073-1: In light of SCP-073's indestructible nature, photographic memory, and general will to please, high command have deemed that all information is to be "backed up" on SCP-073, ensuring it is not lost in the event of a catastrophe. While this action has met with mixed responses, SCP-073 has agreed and sworn itself to secrecy on its part.
Addendum 073-2: Examination of the unidentified metal on SCP-073 has suggested that it is beryllium bronze, a metal that has been documented as being utilized by various anomalous cultures and entities. Most notably, beryllium bronze is a component found in SCP-1216, SCP-1427, SCP-2481, and SCP-2711. In light of this discovery, the Foundation began working in an attempt to trace the origin of beryllium bronze and how it initially spread throughout the world. When prompted, SCP-073 was able to provide information that suggests that beryllium bronze originated in the Middle East, though the exact point of origin has yet to be determined. Further research into the origin of beryllium bronze is currently ongoing.
Addendum 073-3: When information concerning SCP-076 was brought to the attention of SCP-073 for "backing up", subject showed familiarity with the information, although was disinclined to adding to it, despite the fact that it stated that it already knew all about SCP-076. It then stated it would be better for all parties involved that it not meet SCP-076.
===
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Special Containment Procedures: When not in use or the subject of study, SCP-067 is to be stored in its felt-lined wooden box. The nib is to be corked, and all art and writings are to be submitted to SCP Research command for analysis and further experimentation.
Description: SCP-067 is a fountain pen made by a German supply company called Pelikan at some point between World War I and II. It is pale green in color, with a single red line going straight down along the side. The shell is oak and the nib is extremely sharp, capable of piercing human skin if pressed even lightly. Though it apparently lacks a reservoir, the nib never appears to run out of fresh ink. In addition, the pen writes in Iron Gall ink, which is suitable for artists but would normally corrode typical fountain pens quickly.
Research has surmised that any subject holding SCP-067 loses all autonomy of the hand and arm that grasps it. Full sensation is intact, but the arm below the elbow is controlled by unknown forces, theoretically centralized within SCP-067. One effect is that the "controlled" hand will start to use the pen to write a detailed biography of the individual holding the pen. The biography will include such information as the person's name, age, date of birth, criminal record, fears, etc. Other times the pen has been known to write such things as an occurrence that happened in the person's lifetime. For example, when Test Subject 1204M held SCP-067, he began to write a detailed record of a motor vehicle accident he had been in the year before. Later, the subject admitted that many details penned in the account were not readily available to him at present time (i.e. the subject had forgotten many elements present in the written work, including his previous car's license plate number, the other vehicle's color, and so on). The subject stated that his memory of the event was so fresh in his mind during the transcription that he "could taste the blood in his mouth."
Subjects holding SCP-067 have also been known to create intricate works of art, despite the subject lacking any formal art training or previous tendencies toward drawing. For example, Test Subject 1102F, a young woman with no previous artistic experience, was able to draw a winged creature resembling SCP-███, described by researchers present as [DATA EXPUNGED]. When subjects are asked to explain what happens when they hold SCP-067, the typical response is that the subject freely relinquishes control of their appendage to SCP-067 so that it may complete its work unimpeded (see Quoted Response-01). Despite being instructed to not draw or write, subjects describe feelings of empathy, admiration, and cooperation with SCP-067 that coerces them toward a will not their own.
Quoted Response-01: "I don't really know how to explain it, it just kind of happened. When I picked up the pen, it seemed as if my hand wasn't my own anymore. I knew I could move it if I wanted to, but I chose not to because I loved the picture I was drawing. It was like my hand had life. Suddenly, my hand stopped and I realized I had complete control over my hand again, and I put the pen back down. I looked at the drawing and saw how beautiful it was. I guess the pen decided it was done, and was finished with me."
Tests and Experiments
On ██/██/20██, a test was done to see how the pen affected living creatures other than humans.
Experiment 001:
The test subject, a male rhesus macaque aged 2 years 4 months who had previously learned how to use pens and markers, was placed in a standard psychological surveillance room (neutral wall coloration; one-way observation mirrors), with SCP-067, a work table, and a pad of paper.
Subject picked up SCP-067 in its left foot, then took it in its right hand, then tasted it. Subject then put the pen down on the paper and smelled it. After 30 seconds, subject picked up SCP-067 again, and began tapping it repeatedly on the table. Subject also began tapping SCP-067 on its own body. Subject tapped SCP-067 with increasing force, until ink was being splattered on its fur. Subject then threw SCP-067 onto the floor (subsequent mechanical analysis revealed no damage).
At this point, subject tore a page from the pad of paper, and began rubbing it on the ink in its fur. This continued for 3 minutes, after which subject clutched the page in its teeth and leaped from the work table onto the ledge of the observation mirror (with such force that the table was knocked over). Subject began smearing the ink from the paper onto the observation mirror, while making repeated vocalizations; subsequent analysis revealed that 50% of vocalizations were consistent with typical distress vocalizations of the rhesus macaque, and 50% were unfamiliar.
After 6 minutes of smearing ink on the observation mirror, subject began tearing at the page with its teeth and claws, but dropped it before destroying more than 20% of the paper. Subject then collapsed on floor, breathing rapidly and repeating the unfamiliar, atypical vocalizations.
Subject's handler reports that, once removed from psychological surveillance room, subject's mood improved rapidly. Subject was closely observed for two months following the experiment, but did not repeat the atypical vocalizations.
The sheet of paper was filed away in [DATA EXPUNGED].
===
[The voice of the test subject was provided by @phantomancer.]
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Special Containment Procedures: SCP-068 is to be kept away from any metals in an electrically-resistant box, preferably made of polytetrafluoroethylene (teflon) and rubber. Said box is to be stored in security locker 26 at Site 11. Key is kept with Dr. █████. Any requests for testing are to be redirected to them.
Description: SCP-068 is a wire stick figure, 9.8 cm tall, made of an unknown metal. The figure is composed of a single wire looping back to the center. The wire itself appears to have been bent numerous times in multiple places.
When an electric current is introduced to SCP-068, it becomes animate, moving about on its own. SCP-068's "joints" are where a normal human being's would be. Once activated, SCP-068 begins to search for any metallic material. Once metal has been found, SCP-068 will begin to knead it and pull a thin strip of metal off of it. SCP-068 will then construct another figure similar to itself. The newly-created figure will begin to knead the remaining metal alongside the original, creating new figures, which in turn, produce more replicas.
SCP-068 will move onto its next stage after one of two requirements are met. The first is when there are no more metals in range with enough mass to produce another figure, the other is when an upper limit of 102 replicas are created. When either of these events occur, all figures will converge at one location and begin forming themselves into as big a figure as possible. With a maximum of 102 "mini-figures", the resulting figure reaches two meters in height. SCP-068 situates itself in the intersection of the torso, arms and head. Gamma, beta, and theta waves begin emanating from SCP-068 after this union. SCP-068 will then begin to search for metals again attempting to create more figures, only scaled up to whatever size 068 is currently. These replicas do not emanate brain waves like 068 does. If 068 is not at the maximum size limit after this, it will continue to create and add more figures to itself until the limit is reached.
Once it has reached the second stage and there are no metals available from which to construct figures, SCP-068 returns to its dormant state after 4 minutes and 32 seconds of activity. Material surrounding the original figure must be melted away in order to retrieve 068.
SCP-068 is capable of kneading and manipulating any metal presented to it, regardless of properties. It also appears to be impervious to any attempts to damage or destroy it. Copies of SCP-068, however, have the same properties and vulnerabilities as whatever metal was used to construct them.
SCP-068 can detect metals hidden from view through an as-of-yet-unknown process. While 068 will not attempt to reach metals that are too difficult to get to, it will tear through anything that is soft enough for its limbs to penetrate. What it considers "soft enough" changes depending on what 068 is shaped from at the time.
Addendum 068-a: A proposal has been made to use SCP-068 to dispose of dangerous metal-based SCPs.
Addendum 068-b: Note from Dr. █████:
The proposal to use 068 for disposal of dangerous metal-based SCPs has been denied. Seeing as how many, if not all, of our dangerous metal-based SCP's are also invincible, the only thing we would have is a bunch of invulnerable wire figures running about. Honestly, who even thought this up?
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[The voice of Dr. █████ was provided by @lapis-liberalis.]
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Special Containment Procedures: A single specimen of SCP-059 is kept at Site-11B inside a graded-Z laminate shielding box composed of depleted uranium, tantalum, tin, steel, copper, and aluminum. Surrounding SCP-059’s containment box is a 7 x 7 x 7 m area sealed as a Level-4 Biohazard area, and surrounded by 3 cm of lead shielding. This area is to be sprayed daily with a solution of methyl isothiocyanate to prevent overgrowth of SCP-059-1.
Personnel entering an SCP-059 affected area are cautioned to wear appropriate biohazard protection, as well as Type K-59-B radiation shielding. They are to remain in the area for no more than 15 minutes, as the radiation shielding is only partially effective.
SCP-059-1 infestations found in the wild should be contained by removing the SCP-059 specimen responsible, and incineration of all observed SCP-059-1. Large underground infestations are best neutralized by fuel-air (thermobaric) explosives.
Additional specimens of SCP-059 are not needed for experimentation, and should be transported to Site-11B for incineration by plasma arc at 10,000 Kelvin.
Description: SCP-059 is a radioactive mineral of unknown origin, superficially resembling scheelite. A component of SCP-059 is believed to originate in an alternate universe, and to be responsible for its anomalous properties. In addition to alpha, beta, and gamma radiation, SCP-059 specimens produce a previously unknown type of radiation, apparently unique to the object, tentatively designated 'delta radiation'. Delta radiation is accompanied by Cherenkov radiation, visible as a blue glow.
Delta radiation is only partially contained by standard radiation shielding; the best results have been obtained using graded-Z laminate shielding with an additional super-dense metal layer. This reduces the effective range of delta radiation from approximately 20 m to approximately 6 m.
When an area is exposed to delta radiation for more than 15 minutes, an unknown species of fungus (designated SCP-059-1) begins to grow on any exposed surface. This fungus does not require any standard nutrition, but will die within 24 hours of removal from a delta radiation source. SCP-059-1 is itself radioactive, but does not emit delta radiation. However, if a critical mass (approximately ██ kg/m3) of SCP-059-1 is allowed to grow, delta radiation from an unknown source other than SCP-059 will appear in the area, further supporting SCP-059-1 growth. (Interested readers may consult Dr. ███████ for his theories of space-time stress and merger of alternate realities). Within 18 hours, the infected mass will become transparent and disappear, presumably into the universe that is the source of delta radiation. The process then continues with SCP-059-1 infecting new material.
SCP-059-1 will infest both inanimate objects and living beings. Humans (and animals) infected with SCP-059-1 become immune to the effects of ionizing radiation, but progressively merge with SCP-059-1, and eventually have all tissues replaced by fungal growth. While generally non-violent, they will attempt to expose unaffected individuals to SCP-059. SCP-059-1 infections do not appear to be directly contagious, but only spread by contact with delta radiation. However, long-term exposure to SCP-059-1 has not been adequately tested to rule out considering it a biohazard (as well as a known radiation hazard).
Infected individuals still capable of communication describe seeing a world entirely covered with SCP-059-1, where much of the surface is composed of SCP-059. It is unclear whether this is a hallucination or a view into the source of SCP-059. Infectees are generally pleased with their condition and often refer to being in "the blue light of heaven."
SCP-059-1 is affected by most fungicides, but new growth will continue as long as SCP-059 is present. Early stage SCP-059-1 infection in humans may be treated with griseofulvin, however the treatment is 90% likely to lead to death by radiation poisoning. Treated individuals lose their immunity to radiation, and will already have absorbed a now lethal dose prior to treatment. Late stage treatment should not be attempted, as too much tissue will already be converted to SCP-059-1. [DATA EXPUNGED]. The remains of failed treatments should be kept out of range of SCP-059, otherwise [DATA EXPUNGED].
SCP-059 specimens have been discovered in 8 different underground locations, across a range of 5000 km. No pattern has emerged for their appearance. Specimens range from 1-10 kg in size, and are not part of the normal rock formations in the areas where they have been found.
Addendum: Dr. ███████ has recorded and analyzed the patterns of radiation emitted by the contained SCP-059-1 colony, and believes SCP-059-1 may be sapient and attempting to communicate via controlled emissions of radiation. Initial attempts to analyze this "language" reveal [DATA EXPUNGED].
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