SCP-1959 the lost cosmonaut | object class: euclid
Item #: SCP-1959
Object Class: Euclid
Special Containment Procedures: As of this writing, SCP-1959 is yet to be contained.
All observatories within 50° North and 73.2° South of the equator are to be placed within
the Foundation's watch list and amnestic is to be administered to every witness.
Should it be captured, a specialized containment unit has been set aside at Site-██.
Description: SCP-1959 is an unmarked white space suit, similar in make to Soviet's SK-1
model used in Vostok Program with few alterations.
The suit itself appears to be indestructible.
The helmet's visor is badly damaged and misted over, preventing any observation of its interior.
So far, all attempts to communicate with SCP-1959 have failed.
The subject is also known to emit considerable amounts of gamma radiation.
SCP-1959 appears to continuously orbit around the Earth at a reasonably constant speed.
Subject's position can vary between Low to High Earth Orbit at any given moment.
SCP-1959 will ram through any obstacle it encounters, causing grave structural damage.
While the subject is capable of independent movement, it remains motionless most of the
time.
On the occasion the subject does move, its body language shows signs of extreme distress
and it will sometimes make attempts to break its visor.
There are recorded instances where SCP-1959 hovered in place for a certain period of time
before moving off again.
According to observations made to such events, the subject appears to be resisting some unseen
force before being pulled away.
Addendum-01: SCP-1959 was first observed floating in Low Earth Orbit by the crew aboard [REDACTED]
on ██/██/1971.
Observation lasted for three hours before the crew members lost sight of the subject.
Addendum-02: "After some research on Soviet's space program and declassified files, we have
a strong reason to suspect that SCP-1959 is either Aleksei ████████, Andrei
██████, or Sergei ████████. Further research is necessary to fully ascertain the
identity of SCP-1959."
—Dr. ███████
SCP foundation tales: ground control
Darkness slowly turned into light once more.
Blinding, red, fiery light.
At first it was amazing, the sun rising to greet his vision, warming his bones.
Just as everything else since the accident though, it was a false warmth, a false feeling
of hope.
Let go.
Sure the first couple times he managed to turn his head to view the Earth he was filled
with the hope that he would be brought back, that somehow his comrades would find him and
bring him home.
Now, he's glad that they didn't.
It would have meant their end.
You can return home.
It somehow tuned in to the radio too.
Over the years he heard a constant stream of broadcasts from his home, oh what the world
had become.
That was probably just to lure him in though, get him to fall.
But he wouldn't, not now, not ever.
They want you home, look how they try…
He wasn't sure exactly how it happened, or exactly what it was.
One day he was on a shuttle, a secret flight into space, and the next…Well he was where
he is now, and this Presence was with him.
You can't hold out much longer…
At first he just thought it a figment of his imagination.
A way to keep himself sane in the cold void of space.
But as he began to drift towards the Earth he began to realize, he wasn't drifting.
He was being pulled, and the closer he got, the stronger the Presence was, and it felt….wrong.
Wrong.
So he stopped it.
He's not sure how he did this either.
He stopped himself, stopped his unnatural inertia.
Caught himself in the Earth's orbit.
Oh, how the Presence raged…But what he didn't expect was for it to defend itself so well.
Can't stop…Weak, pitiful thing.
It wrapped itself around him and his suit, not something solid, just a Presence.
And it was that Presence that made him unstoppable.
Anything he touched broke before his velocity and density.
Even those who were sent up to collect him could do nothing but fail and die.
But you know what…
You will fall.
I stopped it.
I saved my comrades, I saved us.
Or rather just halted what was inevitable.
But I'm not going to let go.
Even though I'm trapped in this body, in this suit, I won't let go.
Sometimes I even gain control, I smash my visor.
To expose it to the vacuum of space when it was engrained so deeply in me would kill us
both.
But it's too smart for that.
Too old, and too smart.
So I will continue to hold.
I will continue to be the harbinger of death whose blade hovers above the throat of the
Earth.
And on the day that this son of a bitch dies, on the day this Presence realizes it can't
beat us…I'll finally come home.
Home.
scp foundation tales: envying the dead
He stared at the opaque glass of his visor.
It was nothing he hadn't seen before.
Every single day, he looked at nothing but the misted over surface.
He had wept the first few months.
By now, he didn't feel like mustering the energy to cry.
Most days, he couldn't muster the energy to do much of anything.
Not that there was anything to muster energy for.
His eyes traced the spiderweb of cracks in the glass.
He knew it better than he knew his own face.
He recalled being handsome, back in Russia.
He had attracted a wife whom he vaguely remembered being beautiful.
Of course, there was no telling just what his face looked like now.
He knew it had been years, but just how many he couldn't guess.
The accident though, that he remembered quite well.
It had all been going so perfectly.
They had told him he would be the first human being in space.
And perhaps he had, before the explosion.
He had been the only one actually wearing a full suit when it happened.
His friends, they had been lucky.
At the time, he had mourned for them.
He had gone through years of training with Sergei and Andrei, and watching them be torn
apart by fire and shrapnel had been the worst moment of his entire life.
Now, though, now he envied both of them.
In the beginning he had prayed to God to be rescued.
The air in his suit was only supposed to last a day, maybe two, without resupply.
At first he had counted off the seconds in his mind.
When he reached three days, he stopped, the burn in his throat made sure of that.
After what he guessed was five days the gnawing pain in his stomach took up all of his attention.
When he went for almost a full week without asphyxiating, his prayers slowly turned from
rescue to a far more desperate wish.
In his grief-stricken state, the ramifications of his continuing existence were slow to occur
to him.
Eventually it dawned on him that, even if he had continuous oxygen, he would have long
ago died of dehydration.
At first this seemed like a miracle.
He was so hopeful, certain that the motherland would not leave him here in the empty void
of space.
When the thing had first attacked him, he had prayed for death.
He had prayed to die rather a lot over however long he'd been stuck in this suit.
God hadn't been sitting by the phone, it seemed.
The Devil hadn't been especially receptive either.
None of the old gods had bothered showing up.
Perun, the god of thunder and lightning, the one his wizened grandmother used to whisper
about in front of the hearth, well, apparently he wasn't in a prayer answering mood either.
When the second attack came, he finally gave up all hope of being rescued.
It had him now.
That had been a long time ago.
He had stopped praying to anything before long.
After the praying had ceased, the screaming had started.
He had screamed and screamed for days.
Once, his throat had become so damaged that he had choked on his own blood.
That had been the last time tears welled up in his eyes.
For a moment, a brief, shining moment, he had hope, hope that he could finally die.
He really should have known better.
For what felt like weeks he begged himself, God, anything, to let him just die of dehydration,
of starvation, of asphyxiation, anything.
There was no way he could be alive anymore, not after floating in space without supplies
for this long.
Yet, he stubbornly remained breathing, breathing and suffering.
Abruptly, the constant feeling of motion -the whistle of what air there was this high in
the atmosphere rushing past his suit, the sharp tug of G-forces against his flesh- his
only link to existence outside his suit, slammed to a halt.
He knew what that meant.
He knew all too well.
It had come for him again.
The pain arced through the same spot in his chest, just as it had before, time and time
again.
He screamed, this time in agony, not in fear or despair.
Unbidden, his hands rose to his helmeted head.
He knew it was useless, but he had to try anyway.
His gloved fists pounded against the hardened dome.
He never saw what menaced him, never knew what it was that tormented him.
It didn't really matter.
Knowing wouldn't change a thing.
Oh but it was so much worse than before.
Whatever the thing was, it had gotten much better at hurting him.
He had stopped screaming long, long ago, but now he found his lungs being voided of air
against his will, his vocal chords, scratchy from disuse, finding a purpose again.
He screamed for an audience of one.
No one but him heard.
His fingers, so clumsy in the bulky suit, reached above him, to fight back, an involuntary
response to the pain.
He knew there was nothing there that he could touch.
There never had been.
His screams grew louder and louder as the pain spread through his entire body.
His hands came back from their fruitless quest to beat a frantic tattoo against the glass
of his helmet.
It had to break.
It had to.
Something like desperation filled his heart, a diseased, atrophied cousin of hope.
It hadn't broken before, but now it would.
This time would be different.
Death would come, death would free him.
It didn't.
The comforting rush of the vacuum, his last hope, didn't sound in his ears.
The burning agony reached a new crescendo, and he felt fresh tears in his eyes, for the
first time in so long.
His efforts to break the helmet ceased, fingers instead scrabbling in what he knew was a futile
effort to breach the pressure seals.
Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the searing departed.
He gasped for a long time.
He couldn't bring himself to bother feeling relief.
It would be back soon enough.
Aleksei's breathing finally calmed back down.
Once again, he stared at the misted over surface of his visor.
It's not like it was anything he hadn't seen before.