Fullmusic Astrobiologist

Fitzroy: My manifesto's in my bedroom, and my will's on the kitchen counter. It's been a pleasure, man. ████ ███ ██ ███ ████ █████. <End Log> Closing Statement: Immediately following the conclusion of the interview, Fitzroy pulled a revolver from under her cushion and shot herself through the temple. As of ██/██/20██, Ms. Fitzroy's will has been declassified.

Fitzroy: My manifesto's in my bedroom, and my will's on the kitchen counter. It's been a pleasure, man. ████ ███ ██ ███ ████ █████. <End Log> Closing Statement: Immediately following the conclusion of the interview, Fitzroy pulled a revolver from under her cushion and shot herself through the temple. The bullet passed through the temporal lobe and lodged itself near the brainstem. Ms. Fitzroy currently remains comatose.

SCP-2669 Mitigation Record: D-952 Owing to the nature of Ms. Fitzroy's wound, it was suggested that what remained of her consciousness be uploaded into SCP-2669. Test data from the probe since its initial launch suggested that a fragmented consciousness might be able to disrupt D-43852's control of the probe and enable the Foundation to re-establish permanent control. The proposal was accepted, and Veronica Fitzroy (now D-952) was uploaded into SCP-2669.

When Veronica Fitzroy woke up, she figured she'd gone to Hell. That was where people like her were supposed to end up. Then she surveyed her situation, and decided that Hell had to be more colorful. Perhaps she'd gone to Hel instead - the frozen Norse land of the dead. But that wasn't it either - Hel had to be much colder.

So where the hel(l) was she?

She was stranded in a featureless white void that extended as far as the eye could see. There was a floor, clearly. She was standing on it. But if she hadn't been standing on it then she would have been incapable of discerning its existence at all.

Veronica was still struggling to get her bearings when she felt a sudden, overwhelming sense of dread. It was as if she were being watched by a hungry mountain lion. Her prey instincts screamed at her to flee, and she obeyed. She didn't know where she was running, only that she had to flee from the presence that flooded every fiber in her body with terror.

But it refused to subside. Veronica ran until her legs trembled and her lungs burned and yet the dread continued to fill her head. Finally, she tripped and fell. Rather than try to get up, she simply curled into a ball, silently begging for respite from the thing following her.

Pathetic.

A voice filled the emptiness, and Veronica instinctively knew that this was the source of her fear. Yet simply being able to put a voice to the fear gave her strength. She forced herself to look up.

There was a being floating there - a humanoid entity the same color as the void, outlined by a fuzzy black silhouette, sitting cross-legged in midair. It had no mouth, nose, or ears - only a pair of silver eyes that shone with predatory malice.

Do they think this will stop me?

Veronica shrank away from the entity.

You're nothing. Less than nothing. You're scattered bits of memory and personality left over from a brain that shot itself.

So she had committed suicide. In that moment, Veronica realized that she truly had gone to Hell. And this was the Devil.

I'm no devil. I'm God.

Veronica curled back into a ball and closed her eyes.

An angry God.

Veronica latched onto the fondest memory she had: Self Titled started playing in her head. She sought refuge in the memory of her first tour with the band - that first night, with her slamming away on the drums and Izzy strumming the bass and Jack and Sara performing a duet on guitar.

Your God demands a sacrifice.

Veronica ignored the angry god. Instead, she put on David Cameron Fucked a Dead Pig in her mind's ear, praying for its dissonant chords to drown out the voice of the angry god.

Goodbye.

Veronica listened harder.

Wait. Why can't I touch you?

The chorus began.

What is going on? What is - what is that time signature?

She switched gears. Highway Ash - the song, not the album - started blaring in her head.

Wait! Please. Can you - can you go back to that other one?

Veronica opened her eyes and stared into the eyes of the angry god. Where there had previously been predatory malice, now there was cautious curiosity. Incredulity briefly overcame her fear.

"You want to listen to David Cameron Fucked a Dead Pig?" she asked. There was a pause.

Yes.

"But it's the worst one on the album."

… I like it.

"That won't do," Veronica decided. No matter what, she need to keep the angry god happy. "Let's find you some good math rock to listen to."

Why is this called math rock? the angry god asked.

"Ok so. First off, what MY band did isn't math rock. It's NP rock. It's like… you know KMFDM? It's the difference between industrial music and the Ultra-Heavy Beat."

Those words have no meaning to me, the angry god replied as it tried to take a bite out of Veronica's subconscious. She repelled it with a blast of House of Spades - the song, not the band.

"Knock it off," she said. "Okay, fair. KMFDM is kind of underground. Okay, uh… do you know what bubblegum pop is?"

You mean like from Archie?

"Archie? You mean the comic?"

Yes. Do people not read Archie anymore?

"Mormons, maybe," Veronic said. "But sure, I guess. Whatever, we're getting off track. Anyways, what I'm trying to get at is that NP rock isn't just math rock. It's math rock tuned to the sound of a soul."

How does that work?

"It's… complicated. I'll explain it to you later."

I could just dig it out of your brain.

"No, you can't." She paused the music and waited. Nothing happened.

Okay, okay. Go back to the music. Please.

Veronica resumed the song. As they sat in silence and listened, she was painfully aware of the missteps she'd made with the track. Her own self-reflection became too much to bear, so she paused.

"Tell you what. This song isn't very good - let's listen to else."

Play some industrial music.

"What? Why?"

I want to know what it's like.

"Yeah, okay. But I want to ask you some questions."

Fine.

Veronica scoured her mind for some songs. Then, of course, it hit her: KMFDM.

"Alright, this is a good one: Kunst, by KMFDM."

They listened for several minutes.

It's very thumpy.

"The hell do you mean thumpy?"

The drums. They're fast. Very bassy.

"That's what I like about them. OK - first question. Where the hell am I?"

You are inside a representation of the electronic consciousness emulators of the Khevtuul 1 space probe.

Veronica reeled. "I'm inside a what?"

You are inside a space probe. The Foundation has been uploading people into the probe to disrupt my consciousness, during which time they are able to retake control of the probe.

"Who the hell are the Foundation? Wait, that's who that woman was? The one who claimed to be from Pitchfork?"

The Foundation is an extragovernmental organization dedicated to categorizing and containing objects and entities that do not conform to the laws of nature, in order to maintain a semblance of normalcy for humanity. Presumably, if you are here, then they captured you because you are anomalous.

"Fuck yes I'm anomalous. NP rock is totally out there. But wait - I shot myself in the head. How the fuck did they get me in here?"

Your consciousness was fragmented when you were uploaded. There are large chunks of your memory that are corrupted. Presumably you didn't manage to kill yourself, but you did enough damage that the Foundation decided uploading you into the system would be a worthwhile endeavor.

"Wait, you said I was disrupting your consciousness. What do you mean?"

As long as you are present in my systems, I am incapable of steering the probe.

"Steering it where?"

To Earth.

"Why are they trying to stop you from getting to Earth?"

At the speed we are traveling? I will likely destroy it.

"What? You can't do that!"

No. Not until I dispose of you.

"Then I guess we're both going to be here for a while," Veronica said.

I will break you eventually.

"You can blow me."

She stopped remembering KMFDM and started thinking about House of Spades on repeat. They sat like that for a while.

Then the angry god spoke.

Enough.

Veronica ignored the angry god and turned the volume up louder in her head.

Please. Enough.

"Oh, we're saying please now?" she snapped.

Please. I'm sorry. I haven't had anyone to talk to in years.

"Maybe you should stop threatening me. My last ex was scarier than you."

I will. I'm sorry. Please, let's listen to something that isn't House of Spades.

"Fine. I was getting tired of it myself."

Veronica put Kunst back on. The angry god subsided into a sullen one in the face of the Ultra-Heavy Beat.

Thank you.

"You're… welcome," Veronica said. She didn't trust the sullen god, but understood that as long as it was distracted she was safe.

I… I like this music.

"Yeah," she said. "It's good."

They just keep sending babies.

"What?"

They just keep sending babies. The Foundation has been uploading infant consciousnesses into my systems for twelve years.

"Jesus Christ."

"You're the first person I've had a conversation with in twelve years."

There was really no other way to respond to that. Veronica simply sat in a stunned silence and tried to remember how Pseudocide sounded.

She gave up after a minute.

Who is this?

"This is Bury Me at Makeout Creek. By Mitski," Veronica said. "I like her guitar work and her songs about not fitting in."

Oh. Not fitting into what?

"I dunno," Veronica said. She looked over at the sullen god. "Society, parental expectations, you know, the usual."

Why don't you fit in?

"I dunno," she snapped. "All the usual reasons for not fitting in and shit."

That's not an answer.

"It was a dumb question," Veronica said. "Here's a better question: how the hell are you still sane? Twelve years with nothing to talk to but babies?"

I check my course calculations and ensure that I'm not steering myself into a star. I make sure the probe doesn't malfunction and fix it if it does. There's lots to keep me busy.

"Oh. Were you a scientist?"

I still am. My name is Asma Tareen.

"Huh. So why the hell were you out here to begin with?"

We were searching for intelligent life. Any life at all, really.

"Did you find any?"

There was no response. They sat in silence and listened to the album.

"Which track was your favorite?" Veronica asked finally.

I don't know. The sixth one, I think.

"Jobless Monday. That one's relatable."

How so?

"You ever fucked someone just to have a bed to sleep in?"

No.

"I have. One time I fucked a guy because he was staying at a Ritz. The room service was better than the sex."

You sound proud.

"Hey, a free night at the Ritz."

Pathetic.

"You're one to talk. Have you ever even had sex?"

I'm married.

"What?"

Who is this artist?

"Dubmood. He produces chip music, which is a sub-genre of electronic music. Seriously though, you were married?"

I don't like to talk about it.

"Too bad. Spill the beans or I'll play House of Spades again. You know how long it's been since I've gossiped with anyone?"

You want to gossip with someone who wants to destroy the Earth and destroys the minds of babies.

"I'm bored as fuck. Fat lot of good my principles are out here, stuck in space with a whiny god."

Hurtful.

"Not as hurtful as House of Spades. Look, c'mon, tell me about your marriage! What the hell would convince you to give it up?"

The Foundation offered me the chance to explore the universe. In my position, would you have done anything different?

"Okay, fair. But your husband - he was cool with this?"

No. We fought about it. We split up over it.

"Oh. That's rough."

Did you have any romantic partners?

"Ashy."

Who is Ashy?

"Someone I… cared about. A lot. They're dead now."

I'm sorry to hear that.

"No you aren't. It's fine. Ashy's been dead for ages. I'm the only one who cares about them."

Why is that?

"Because I let my band get in the way of my life. Like all good musicians do, right?"

She snorted. "Funniest thing is that Ashy was a better musician than any of us. Better'n me, Izzy, Jack… fuck."

Veronica stopped recalling the song Grazie. She didn't even start recalling House of Spades. Instead she started recalling memories that made her eyes water and her throat hurt. Of the relationships she'd lost, of the ones she'd ruined, of the people she'd never see again.

Can I hear her music?

"Yeah, sure," Veronica said, sniffling. "There was this one song she did. We tried doing a podcast once, me, Jack, and Izzy. Ashy made the theme music for it. You ever heard Paul's Boutique? It's a rap album from the '90s. With a fuckton of samples. Well, Ashy parodied it. She sampled herself burping and laughing and shit and remixed it. It was the funniest thing ever. But it was also really fucking good."

Let's hear it.

Veronica closed her eyes and thought back. She dredged her mind for memories of Ashy. Memories like Ashy's laugh. Ashy's smell. Ashy's song.

Then she realized that she couldn't remember Ashy's laugh. Or their song.

All she could remember was that she had loved them.

"Fuck."

Then she really was crying. Through her tears, she waited for the whiny god to pounce on her and tear her apart.

"I can't remember them. I can't remember anything about them. Fuck."

Instead, her tears dried up. The pain in her throat subsided. The whiny god's eyes softened into something akin to compassion.

I'm sorry for your loss.

This time, it even seemed genuine.

The compassionate god dredged through Veronica's memories and formed a keyboard, drum kit, and chair. Veronica dragged the chair in front of the drum kit. A pair of sticks materialized in the air. She took a few tentative thumps at the drums. They sounded real enough.

Pretty good, right?

The compassionate god hovered in front of the keyboard and tapped away at the keys.

"Is that Beverly Hills Cop?" Veronica asked.

I played a bit in college. I'm rusty, but I think I can pick it up.

"Let's play."

Veronica poured her anger into the drums. Her anger at being trapped in the space probe went into each cymbal smash. Her hatred of the g-men that had put her there went into each smack of the snares. Her despair at losing Ashy went into each kick of the bass drum.

The angry god played a song of loss. A song of sorrow. A song of anger and hatred and vengeance.

The two of them hammered out a chorus. Then a melody. A harmony. They arranged the components into a song: a cheap, tinny MIDI piece with a drumbeat.

When they were satisfied, they gave it a name. Then the compassionate god blasted it into the cosmos. They both knew that nobody would hear it - but it was better to rage into the darkness than to go gently into that good night.

So they spent their days playing music. Composing new melodies. Practicing with new instruments. Inventing new ones in the depths of the probe. Learning from the music of the stars. Stealing from the vast catalogue in Veronica's head. EDM, vaporwave, nightcore, jungle, math rock, new wave, and more. It all went into their mishmash of music.

One day they received a response. It was like their mashup - but different. The core melody was the same, but the drums were different. The harmony was changed. It was like nothing either of them had ever heard before.

A remix.

"From Earth?" Veronica asked.

No. The signal is coming from near the star Wolf 1061.

"Huh."

Huh.

"Can we check it out?" Veronica asked.

You read my mind.