SCP FOUNDATION INTERNAL LOGDate: 2000-06-01Classification: Ongoing / UnassignedSubject: Geospatial Anomaly Cluster (Provisional)
There are patterns the Foundation recognizes instantly.
Circles.Lines.Ley alignments.Population centers.Faults in baseline reality that at least pretend to make sense.
Then there is this.
It starts with satellites flagging anomalies that should not be related—because nothing about them lines up.
A sudden subterranean void in the exact center of the Sahara Desert
Seismic irregularities beneath Alaska
Structural inconsistencies in multiple European cities
And an escalating number of civilian reports in France that all end the same way:
"I must have imagined it."
Individually, none of these are alarming.
Together?
They form the most disturbing pattern of all:
No pattern whatsoever.
Sahara Site — Provisional SCP Construction Zone
The Foundation's presence in the Sahara is officially justified as the establishment of a new containment site. Remote. Politically quiet. Geologically stable.
Unofficially, it's because the Sahara is where reality goes when it wants to be left alone.
Until now.
Ground-penetrating radar detects a cavity that should not exist.
A hole.
Perfectly round. Cleanly bored. Descending straight down.
No signs of excavation debris. No displaced sand. No collapse.
Just a hole.
Foundation personnel do not approach.
They never approach holes.
Unmanned drones are deployed.
Drone Log — Entry 01
The drone descends.
Lights activate.
The walls are not stone.
They are worked.
This is a mineshaft.
Wooden supports. Metal braces. Power cables. Electric lighting that is still—somehow—functional.
Mining equipment lines the sides.
None of it matches any known industrial standard.
Some tools appear hand-cranked.Others are pedal-powered.One device resembles a drill attached to a tricycle.
At approximately 300 meters depth, the drone encounters a laminated map taped to the wall.
It is partially burned.
Partially chewed.
Someone—or something—has taken bites out of it.
Map Description (Recovered via Drone Imaging)
The map is hand-drawn.
Childlike.
Incorrect.
At the center:
"YOU WERE HERE"➡ Sahara Desert
A line extends outward in a direction that does not correspond to any compass heading.
It ends at:
"YOU ARE NOW HERE"➡ Alaska (???)
Multiple arrows loop, cross, double back.
Near the bottom right corner is a third marker.
A dot.
Labeled:
"FRANCE"
Next to it:A drawing of a baguette.A croissant.And a smiling face.
Expanded Survey
Additional drones are deployed.
They trace the tunnels.
The geometry makes no sense.
Multiple shafts diverge, reconverge, intersect, then abruptly stop.
Evidence suggests multiple individuals were traveling simultaneously, attempting to reach the same destination without agreement on direction.
Scrape marks overlap.
Supports are damaged in ways consistent with arguments.
At several points, tunnels appear to have… waited for each other.
Every drone—every single one—eventually reaches the same endpoint.
France — Sewer System
The drones emerge into wastewater infrastructure beneath Paris.
No anomalous readings.
No active entities detected.
Just tunnels ending abruptly, as if their purpose has already been fulfilled.
Conclusion is unavoidable.
Foundation Assessment (Preliminary)
At least 14 separate anomalies were active
All exhibited identical construction methods
All originated from the Sahara
All converged on France
All are now unaccounted for
Whether these entities are currently embedded within civilian populations is unknown.
What is known:
If containment was possible—
It was already missed.
Elsewhere — A Park in France
I'm sitting on a picnic blanket.
Across from me is a very nice old lady. Her grandkids are laughing. There's a basket between us filled with food I definitely didn't steal from a five-star restaurant.
A golden retriever is staring at me.
Hard.
Tail wagging.
Head tilted.
He steps closer.
I squeak.
Not intentionally.
It just… happens.
The dog's eyes light up.
Squeak.
He pounces, gently but enthusiastically, batting at my ears.
The kids laugh.
The old lady smiles.
"Oh," she says fondly, "it is a toy."
I sigh.
Internally.
Because of course this is my life now.
I pat the dog, who immediately squeaks me again by accident.
I wince.
"Yeah," I mutter under my breath. "Toon physiology. Big mistake."
Somewhere, very far away, a room full of very serious people is staring at satellite images and trying to understand why reality looks like it lost a bet.
And here I am.
Squeaking.
I scratch the dog behind the ears.
"Don't get used to it," I tell him.
He does anyway.