SCP-5130
rating: +19+x
3/5130 LEVEL 3/5130
CLASSIFIED
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Item #: SCP-5130
euclid

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Aerial view of SCP-5130.

Special Containment Procedures: A 20km exclusion radius is to be enforced around SCP-5130 via the Foundation submarine SCPF Bohr. Outpost-5130 has been established at a safe distance from SCP-5130 for this purpose, and is to coordinate SCPF Bohr operations as well as house relevant personnel. Beyond the current SCP-5130-2 instance if extant, access to SCP-5130 and SCP-5130-1 specimens by any individual is prohibited.

Description: SCP-5130 is an island located in the Indian Ocean1, measuring 70 km in depth with a 210 km2 land area. SCP-5130 displays several anomalous attributes, including:

  • the constant generation of a localized weather system maintaining itself at a temperature of 300 K regardless of surrounding climate,
  • the ocean adjacent to SCP-5130 consisting of potable (fresh) water instead of saline water,
  • a lack of endemic fauna despite the presence of ideal conditions for sustained habitation, and
  • an extensive endemic population of anomalous plant life, collectively designated SCP-5130-1.

SCP-5130-1 consists of several discrete species of anomalous flora resembling a variety of foodstuffs; testing has confirmed a similar chemical composition and nutritional content to associated foods. Additionally, SCP-5130-1 instances display accelerated regenerative capabilities, with any removed matter regrowing within a maximum of one hour. SCP-5130-1 instances will rapidly degrade and calcify, becoming non-consumable, on removal from SCP-5130.

The following table displays several selected examples of SCP-5130-1 instances.

Designation Description
5130-1-017 Flowering bush sprouting fruiting pods similar to processed sausages.
5130-1-023 Leafy vine which, when cut, exudes fluid similar to maple syrup.
5130-1-031 Leafy plant with tuberous roots similar to potatoes which appear to grow cooked and seasoned.
5130-1-044 Flowering tree; flower petals bear strong similarities to toasted slices of bread.
5130-1-062 Stalked plant growing buds similar in appearance and composition to roasted chicken legs.


If a human observes sustained consumption of SCP-5130-1 over a period of time greater than one hour, they will become subject to several anomalous effects and are thereafter considered an instance of SCP-5130-2. SCP-5130-2 instances experience a mild addiction to SCP-5130-1, which is unaccounted for by chemical composition. Additionally, instances display a strong aversion to exiting SCP-5130, although this is not believed to arise from an anomalous compulsive effect.

Testing has determined that it is impossible for more than one human to reach SCP-5130 at any one time. This is primarily due to the sudden manifestation of dangerous meteorological phenomena, such as extreme winds and electrical storm systems, in the surrounding area when multiple individuals approach SCP-5130. The intensity of these phenomena scales at a geometric rate approaching SCP-5130, with the anomaly as the epicenter; this has invariably resulted in the expiration of all approaching subjects but one.

In addition to the difficulties in directly approaching SCP-5130, its remote location renders long-range communication unreliable. As a result, over time, SCP-5130-2 instances appear to experience significant psychological damage as a result of isolation, and become increasingly dependent on the consumption of SCP-5130-1 as a coping mechanism. SCP-5130-1 specimens will undergo extensive chemical and physical alterations in response to this, which remain poorly documented.

After a variable period with a recorded maximum of five months, a dense storm system which severely limits visibility will form surrounding SCP-5130, persisting for twenty-four hours. Following the disappearance of the storm, the SCP-5130-2 instance will no longer be present. The status of SCP-5130-2 instances during and after this event is uncertain.

Addendum 5130-01: Supplemental Materials

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RM-5130 following restoration.

A significant portion of data relating to SCP-5130 originates from Relevant Material (RM)-5130, a ship’s journal sealed in a rudimentary cask composed of calcified wood2, which was recovered on the coastline of Mumbai. RM-5130 was partially water-damaged and stained by various vegetable oils, but relevant portions could be recovered in a readable state.

The author of RM-5130 was determined to be one Emil Waltherson, a British sailor who was thought to have died at sea in 1829. Based on information from relevant portions of RM-5130, Waltherson is currently believed to have been stranded on SCP-5130 after his vessel, the Celeste, ran aground and was destroyed. Subsequently, Waltherson became a SCP-5130-2 instance.

Pertinent sections of RM-5130 are appended below, and have been transcribed for readability.

Anno Domini 1829, date unknown.

The Celeste has been dashed to pieces on unforgiving rocks. Fortune was with me, and I escaped with my journal, pen, and the vestments on my back. Nonetheless, I am a prisoner in a strange land, but this is not all.

This island seems to have have sprung from the storybooks my young sons read. It is a truly fantastic place; the seawater is not salty, but sweet and clean, and a breeze that wafts from afar carries scents that cause great delicacies to come to my mind and bring my mouth to water.

I must rest for the night, but I have no doubt in my mind that I will find further fascinations as I explore inland.

Anno Domini 1829, date unknown.

As I pen this entry, I can hardly believe my eyes. I have seen wonders beyond imagining in my exploration. Trees grow here that flower with fresh bread, buttered to perfection; bushes bear the finest veal; the very tubers I unearth are cooked through and seasoned finely. How can this be? Have I inadvertently landed upon paradise?

Regardless of whether this is some heretofore unknown curiosity or an earthly Eden, I am obviously well-off in regards to foodstuffs, and the sweet, fresh waters surrounding the island will sate my thirst.

My only concern is therefore escape.

Anno Domini 1829, date unknown.

I cannot escape. And I never shall. Were I to sail even the swarthiest ship into the waves I see, it would be at the bottom in the blink of an eye. Of this, I am certain. I do not know why I am so sure; the idea is without justification.

The very thought of never again seeing my children, leaving my wife a widow. It should be all but inconceivable. But somehow, it does not inflame my spirit, or bring tears to my eyes. I am not one to give in so easily, or so soon. And yet, to spend the rest of my days in paradise… I can conceive of worse fates.

I must place down my pen. Supper awaits.

Date unknown.

Truly, this island is the paradise of a food connoisseur such as I. I have found myself devoting more and more of my time to studying its delicacies in lieu of other activities.

It seems almost as if whenever I grow weary of one dish, the island sees fit to supply my palate with a brand-new host of flavors. Trees that exude the finest wines, creeping vines like silky pasta, luscious tomatoes that seem almost to cook in their own juices…

There is a nagging voice in the back of my mind which screams that I should not be so content as I am. But I shall choose to ignore it. It is not as if I am in danger.

Date unknown.

I have g

[A large section of text is smudged, with traces of oil present.]

I have not always been this gluttonous. What has changed in me? I am not certain if it is a good change, or otherwise.

But the delicacies of this island, they call to me. They are all I have left. All that remains to me. I do not know if these thoughts are born of a sane mind or one decaying from maddening isolation, and it fills me with deep, dark fear.

[No date written.]

Intoxicating aromas clog my nose and cloud my mind. Delicacies beyond description, beyond imagination. Whenever I attempt to make a move, to speak, even to think, the foodstuffs all but leap into my mouth. I have not moved in days. I am not sure I wish to anymore. Is this a paradise after all, or is it a delicious Hell?

My fingers are nearly too rife with oil to keep my pen in hand. I fear I will not record much further.

[No date written. The entry is smudged significantly and appears to have been written sloppily with an unknown savory sauce rather than ink.]

The weather worsens. Not a drop of water has reached me where I lie, but it is no matter. Fog and spray draw ever closer to the island. The food is rancid, the veal and tomatoes rotting away.

This island never was a paradise, was it? I have composed a rude cask from what little wood is left. When I have finished scrawling this entry, I shall place my journal within and surrender it to the sea.

I feel something drawing closer. I feel its hunger. I know, in my heart, that I am naught but prey fattened for the slaughter.

Perhaps that is all I was from the moment I arrived on this cursed shore.

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