SCP Foundation

The following took place between Agent Carlson (AC) and Sous Chef Erik Bulland (EB) of the Site-63 dining facilities, shortly after the recognition of SCP-4992 as anomalous.

[BEGIN LOG]

AC: Could you walk us through the first time you worked with SCP-4992, please?

EB: It was like any other day, up until that point. We had several vinaigrettes and gastriques to prep for the evening service, and I always make those, as well as any sauces. So, I went to the walk-in, grabbed a head or two of shallot, and got to work. Pretty soon after that, I start hearin' this music. Strange music. Sounds like Alvin and the Chipmunks, ya know what I mean?

AC: I believe I do, yes. High-pitched voices, kinda squeaky?

EB: Yeah, it was almost comical, right? So I'm figurin' that the guys were goofin' around; we usually take turns with the music selection during prep — metal is my favorite to play — and I thought 'Must be Jerry, he's the only one who would try to get away with something that goofy'.

AC: Did anyone else that you know of hear the music too?

EB: Well that's the thing, I found Jerry and kinda jabbed him saying 'That's a good one, put some real music on.' But Jerry didn't know what I was talking about, just looked at me like I was tryin' to mess with him. I figured it out soon; I was the only one hearing this. So that's when I started getting a little creeped out; I mean, the Alvin voices didn't make that any better. I thought I was havin' a psychotic episode; it's not unheard of around here.

AC: That's why you excused yourself from the shift and sought the on-site doctor.

EB: Yeah, you hear all kind of stories working here, and I didn't want to take any chances. I may not be an agent, but I know when something weird is going on.

AC: And your psych eval was unremarkable. The physician thought it to be auditory hallucinations from lack of sleep.

EB: Yeah, I had been taking a lot of Ambien and melatonin to try to get over the insomnia I've been having, so the explanation made a lot of sense. I went back to work a couple of hours later.

AC: What happened then?

EB: Well, the staff was in a bit of a fuss, actually. Something about a bad flavor, and some of the cooks were trying to accuse each other of making their part of the dishes wrong. One guy who was arguing mentioned something about… turning off some crazy music over the speakers, and that caught my attention. I stepped in and told them I had heard the music too, it had stopped after a song or two, and we quickly found out he had been working with shallots as well, for a relish. So, we got Marty the Chef de Cuisine to taste the stuff, he pinpointed it as the shallots, and that was that. We all cut it up to have a tasting, kinda like an educational opportunity from Chef, and soon, we were all listening to little Alvin. That's when Chef contacted you guys.

AC: I see. Anything else?

EB: No, that was it. Pretty harmless, just a bit annoying because it isn't my style of music. I like metal, myself, so. I'll say this though, once we all realized it wasn't just in any one of our heads, we just stood around and listened for a bit… it wasn't terrible music. In fact, despite the wacky voice of it, the lyrics to the songs were actually speaking about some real stuff. 'Real talk', as one of the chefs put it. Reminded me of growing up. You know, now that I think about it; put some double bass drums and highly-syncopated rhythm guitar parts to it, and… I dunno, I think I could like that.

[END LOG]

The following was recorded shortly after Agent Finch began removing layers from SCP-4992-3, as part of Experiment 3a. It is included in the record as a usual example of SCP-4992-B. Speech has been transcribed below.

I am a farmhouse
Born of my owner's calloused hands
He didn't have much,
But in his heart was rich as any man.

He was a plowman,
He dug the earth so people had their fill,
By no fault of his own,
Smaller lives were claimed by his skill.

It was not biased,
Took the flowers and the serpents too
And when he saw his wreckage,
From his lips there would come a tune:

In that we do
Similar things
To those in our shadows,
With equal
Indifference, carnage, and cyclicity
In stirring the soil,
In shuffling the soul,
Indifference can only be
Accepted, painfully
For it is simply fair.

I knew a worker,
He saw to the colony's Queen
She was their lifeblood,
For several generations she had been.

Until one day,
The plowman's work brought about his till
And it found his poor Queen,
He carried her for hours
To their hill.

They all decided
To lay her beneath their nursery,
And their lives in shambles,
Animals looking upwards, they did sing:

In that we do
Similar things
To those in our shadows,
With equal
Indifference, carnage, and cyclicity
In stirring the soil,
In shuffling the soul,
Indifference it can only be
Accepted, painfully
For it is simply fair.

The plowman one night,
Returned to my sight
But it wasn't long
Before dark skies
Tower of death in clouds
Could tell the trees to bow,
And I couldn't keep him from this plow.

I begged to let him stay,
As it tore my roof away,
But it wasn't long;
The plowman's gone.
Finally the sun arrived,
And I thought he must have died,
But somewhere near, I heard a cry:

In that we do
Similar things
To those in our shadows,
With equal
Indifference, carnage, and cyclicity
In stirring the soil,
In shuffling the soul,
Indifference can only be
Accepted, painfully
For it is simply fair.