 Item No. 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 watchlist and amnestics 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 spacesuit, similar in make to Soviet's SK-1 model used in Bostok Program with few alterations. The suit itself appears to be indestructible. The helmet's visor is badly damaged and missed it 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. Subjects' positioning 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 so 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 amount of time before moving off again. According to observations made at such events, the subject appears to be resisting some unseen force before being pulled away. Addendum 01 SCP-1959 will first observe floating in low Earth orbit by the crew aboard ███████ on ████████ 1971. Observation lasted for three hours before the crew members lost sight of the subject. Addendum 02 After some research on the Soviet space program and declassified files, we have a strong reason to suspect that SCP-1959 either Alexei ████████, Andrei ████████, or Sergei ████████, further research is necessary to fully ascertain the identity of SCP-1959, Dr. ████████, darkness slowly turning to light once more, blinding red fiery light. At first it was amazing, the sun rising to greet its vision, warming his bones. Just as everything else since the accident, though, it was a false warrant, a false feeling of hope. SCP-1959 Sure, the first couple of 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 they didn't, that would have meant their end. SCP-1959 You can return home! It somehow tuned into 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. SCP-1959 They want you home! What got the try? SCP-1959 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 his presence was with him. SCP-1959 You can't hold out much longer. SCP-1959 At first he just thought it was 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. SCP-1959 Wrong. Although 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 it to defend itself so well. SCP-1959 Get stopped! SCP-1959 It wrapped itself around him in a suit, not something solid, just a presence. And it was that presence that made him unstoppable. Everything he touched broke before his velocity and density. Even those who were sent to collect him could do nothing but fail and die. But you know what? SCP-1959 You won't fall! SCP-1959 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 ingrained 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 who blade hovered above the throw 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. He stares 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 a spider web 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 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 Sergey 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 affixiating, his prayers slowly turned from rescue to a far more desperate wish. In his grief-stricken state, the ramifications of his ketune existed for slow to occur to him. Eventually, it dawned on him that, even if he had ketune with oxygen, he would have long ago died of dehydration. At first, it 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 had been stuck in his 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. Perrin, the god of thunder and lightning, the one his wizened grandmother used to whisper about in front of the earth. Well, apparently he wasn't in a prayer-entering 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 just let him 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. After 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 arc 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 fist pounded against a 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 cords scratching 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 soup, reached above him to fight back, an involuntary response to the pain. He knew there was nothing there he could touch. There never had been. His screams grew louder and louder as the pain spread throughout his entire body. His hands came back from the 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 disease atrophied cousin of hope. It hadn't broken him 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 with 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. Alexei's breathing finally calmed back down. Once again, he stared the misted-over surface of his visor. It's not like it was anything he hadn't seen before.