The SCP Experience - The Tribunal that Runs the World | SCP-2520

Episode Date: July 11, 2022

SCP Foundation EUCLID class object, SCP-2520: The Tribunal that Runs the World This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-2520, and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: Joshua Simpson DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content. Parental guidance is advised for children under the age of 18. Listen at your own discretion. #drscp #scp #scpfoundation #doctorscp #scpencounters #securecontainprotect #scpstories #scpexplained #whatisscp Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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Download the Instacart app and shop today. The archives were icy cold. Keeps all the documents and artifacts better preserved, said Winston, the chief archivist at the RWA, the Royal World Archives in London, who was inducting me into my new job. You'll need one of these, he said, gesturing to his scarf with a smile. Right, I said, shivering. He walked me into his office, where it was slightly warmer. As my junior archivist, I'll start you with mostly support work, assisting me in keeping the records ordered and, I'm afraid, a lot of boring admin, he said, sitting down at his desk and pulling up a chair next to him.

Please, sit. I sat. I took the remote from his drawer and turned on the TV that was hanging on the wall. Nice to have something on in the background while we work, he said. The news was reporting on the upcoming G7 summit. Leaders of the world will be meeting in Cornwall, England, this week, to discuss actions which must be taken to curb the growing climate crisis. The IPCC warns the Earth could enter a new ice age if we don't step up measures to reduce... It won't be the archives that are cold if we don't do something soon, Winston quipped.

Then, scrolling through the archival contents of his computer screen, he froze. That's strange, he said. What's that? I asked. Hmm, he said, scrolling and clicking his mouse. Probably nothing. Winston went a bit quiet after that. He was usually quite casual and chatty while working, but he then became completely engrossed in his screen.

Just familiarize yourself with the record system, he said. I need to look into something. He spun on his chair so his back was turned to me and called someone on his phone. Their voice was faint on the other end, but I could just make out their words. Hi, Winston, do you need something? I've noticed there were some redactions on the record system

while I was away, said Winston. Do you know anything about this? Oh, yes. Two weeks ago, a request came through from our board of directors. certain entries were to be removed. But so many? asked Winston. Hundreds.

That's what they asked for. So, I did it for him. As you weren't here, I hope that's okay. Did you ask for their reason? Well, I did think it a little strange, but they just said they'd held a board meeting and a decision had been made. The decision was binding, they said,

and the verdict was final. Seems very serious, said Winston. Yes, so I didn't ask too many questions. Winston paused, then said, Thanks, son, eh? That's all for now. Bye, Winston. Then Winston threw his phone onto the desk and stood up so quickly he knocked over his water bottle

and then caught it before it spilled over the keyboard. He then turned to leave and tripped over his feet as he rushed out of the room. What was up with him? I thought. minutes later he returned with a black metal box, his external hard drive, and plugged it into his computer. Everything okay? I dared to inquire. Just checking something, he said. Do me a favor and stand by the door, would you? I don't want to be disturbed right now. Let me know if anyone comes this way.

I did what he said, and walked to the door to keep watch. The lengthy and chilling. aisles of the archives were, as usual, completely vacant. Behind me, I could hear Winston mumbling and grumbling to himself, scratching his head and clicking his pen, rolling his chair forwards and backwards, until finally he called me. Tim, come here, please. What do you make of this? I came back around and looked over his shoulder as he showed me a screen. Redactions are not uncommon here, as certain records are reclassified as confidential, falsified, or redundant. The thing is, it's always either one record or a small handful of connected records that are removed. But see this.

Winston split his screen to display the archive system records on the left and his personal backup of the records on the right. I made me backup just two weeks ago, before me holiday. Look at the number of records. On the left, I saw the archives contained some 2,824,000 records. On the right, I saw that two weeks ago it contained some 2,826,000 records. A reduction of nearly 2,000? What's up with that? I asked. Such a large number of reductions would suggest some kind of large-scale cover-up. That is not normal.

So, what has been removed? I asked. That is a good question, Tim, said Winston. We spent the whole afternoon, evening, and worked into the night to collate the redacted records and run them through the archives' analytic software to find commonalities. We found the redaction spanned every country and every century. There was only one thing in common. All redacted records concerned some kind of court or committee, or board who had made some decision of high importance,

only to then have the decision changed by the interference of an external tribunal. The tribunal appeared with different names each time, the Blind Obedience Appeals Tribunal, the trustful Tribunal of Special Matters, the incontrovertible Global Tribunal, and no prior record of them could ever be found elsewhere, but their authority was never questioned.

The authorities affected by the Tribunal ranged from the U.S. Supreme Court to the United Nations Assembly, to the ancient Roman Senate, to even the boards of directors of modern companies like Coca-Cola and Apple. In every case, a decision had been reached internally before the tribunal stepped in to moderate the decision, sometimes amending it slightly, and sometimes completely reversing it. But the effects were always the same. The tribunal's authority was unquestioned and their decision was followed. For example, I can still recall some excerpts. On the 7th of April 1857, the Supreme Court of the United States were ruling on a landmark slavery case and leaning

towards emancipation before the Tribunal of Inevitable Allegiance inserted their resolution, which read, Under the pile of absurd considerations on the interpretation of the Constitution, the powers of Congress and the jurisdiction of the court lies the shameful and vile decision that persons of the African race can and should be subject to slavery. On 20th of September 1610, the Privy Council of England was ruling in favor of allowing the monarchy to create new laws without challenge, so kings could create laws merely by proclaiming them, before the tribunal of indisputable righteousness intervened to resolve that. To properly institute the laws necessary to govern the shaping of a great and noble

country in the desired direction. All legal designs shall henceforth only come into being after due process, including approval by a hearing in Parliament, rather than decided on a whim by the isolated family of royals. And more recently, one in particular stood out to me. On the 26th of August, 2019, in France, the G7 summit leaders were approaching a mutual commitment to the stronger measures sorely needed to curb climate change, before the trustful tribunal of blind obedience visited to impart their decision that, in light of recent developments,

the actions here too far taken against climate change are now agreed by all parties of the G7 to be surplus to requirements, and therefore no extenuation of measures is necessary, and, in fact, everyone can just chill out a bit for a couple of years. Scanning over these, It was clear to me that this tribunal was steering humanity, but steering it towards what?

And why? And why were they never questioned? We need to do something, I said. Careful, said Winston. We don't know who we're messing with. If they've got the power to do all of these, he gestured to the hundreds of overturned court and committee decisions on his screen. Then we should tread carefully. He was right.

The tribunal was powerful, more powerful than us. Our investigation needn't start too noisily. We have a lead to follow right here in this building. Follow me, he said, grabbing his scarf and rushing to the door. Let's see what info we can get from the archive directors here first. I braced for the cold and followed him out the door. Ah, Richard, said Winston. When we met one of the directors in the hall,

I've been meaning to chat with you. Do you have a minute? Of course, Winston. What is it? I noticed we've done quite a bit of pruning whilst I was away. Can you tell me about that? Sure, said Richard, sipping his coffee. We had our annual discussion about redactions and hit a bit of a stalemate.

A stalemate? Asked Winston. Yes. We couldn't decide whether to repeat the usual process this year and tidy up, or just let things be. With you away, I was leaning towards skipping redactions this year. I convinced the board to that effect. But we didn't skip them. I saw. We made a record number of redactions, in fact. Yes, well, after the tribunal decided we needed to make so many redactions, my initial plan was overturned. Richard slurped his coffee.

I was your holiday, by the way. You're looking nice and tanned. Winston glanced at me, then back to Richard saying. Richard, who exactly was this tribunal? The tribunal of inescapable eventualities. Yes, that's right, said Richard, looking a little troubled. Winston asked, And is it ordinary for the board's decisions to be resolved by a tribunal? Not ordinary, no, but the decision was binding.

Their verdict was final. Winston paused to take a breath and gathered his thoughts, then spoke. Richard, have you ever heard of this? Tribunal of Inescapable Eventualities before? Nope. Richard shook his head, as if dispelling a thought. Was it Bermuda you went to? I heard the beaches are gorgeous.

Richard, why did you? you let this tribunal overturn your decision? They have no authority over the board. They have no authority over the board, repeated Richard, then stared at the floor for a moment, in silence, gears ticking in his mind, before glancing up to Winston with a look of embarrassment. What? What happened? asked Richard, setting down his coffee on a side table. What have I done? Something is going on, Richard. Why did I do that?

This is so strange. Biennue at board of Via Rai. Embarked and profited. Embarked and relaxes. Cirotay. Bookine. Oh, that also. And profite.

Villaray, the voice that we love. Winston then invited Richard into his office, showing him the backup on his hard drive. explained to him about the nature of the redactions, the actions of the mysterious tribunal, and our need to investigate further. Richard agreed to help us in any way he could. He swore himself to secrecy regarding our investigation, then left, with his head hanging low, with the shame of someone who'd been foolishly scammed.

There's one good thing to come out of that, said Winston. It seems that simply bringing someone's attention to the tribunal is enough to. to shadow the tribunal's power of influence. Yes, I said. As soon as you made him question the tribunal, he realized they had no authority. So now, we just need to invoke such awareness on a larger scale. An expose, I said.

Share the redacted documents from your backup. Share it with the internet. Reddit will love this. I was so excited about being at the spearhead of uncovering the biggest ever global conspiracy. But Winston was being quiet. He sat there stroking his chin. We're missing something, he said. What? I asked. If the tribunal has likewise erased all other records of their interference throughout human history, then it's possible that the

veracity of my personal records could be questioned. They won't be corroborated. We could appear like wackos, hoaxers, conspiracy nuts. Remember who we're dealing with. They have influence. So, what do we do? I asked. I don't know if there's anything we can do. Then it hit me.

The G7 summit! I cried. Winston sat bolt upright. I continued. The tribunal has attended most of the G7 summits in recent years. Last year, it was cancelled due to COVID. I bet my shirt they're going to make themselves present this year, and we could catch them in the act. Winston stood up, joining my excitement.

Tim, you're right! And right now, we have one advantage. Surprise! This tribunal has no idea we're onto them. We need to keep it that way. But how will we get in? I asked. With this, said Richard, standing at the door and letting a cold draft into Winston's office.

He held two key cards in his hands. hand. Privileges of being a member of the Royal London Archival Society, Tim. What are those? I asked. They are like a press pass on steroids, said Winston, taking the cards from Richard. These won't get us near the world leaders, but they can get us access to all the summit's records and correspondences as they're updated. It should be enough to catch the tribunal's interference as it's made. We could catch them red-handed. I cried. Just make sure you stop those bastards, said Richard, still a little sullen from his folly. As we rolled up to the Carbis Bay Hotel in our taxi, a swarm of press were gravitating

on the red carpet that extended from the parking bay to the entrance. Each time a car pulled into the bay, and a guest emerged, smiling and waving in rehearsed body language. The swarm of press sparkled in a Mexican wave of camera flashes that followed the guest along the red carpet and into the Carbis Bay Hotel. Our taxi skirted around the back to the side entrance reserved for those few supporting officials whose arrival was of no public interest.

The administrative aides, the legal support, the committee stenographers, and us. At the door, as the clerk took our passes and checked them against his list, Winston said, Winston Clark and Timothy Stepfall. Please tell us in which room we can find the records office. Wait here a second, said the clerk, then ducked inside the door.

A minute passed. Winston and I glanced at each other. This was a bad sign. It began to rain. We huddled close to the wall. The clerk emerged, handed back our passes and said, You guys will be welcome to the waiting lounge until the summit is completed. If you'd like, please follow me. The clerk started walking around the outside of the building to yet another entrance.

The waiting lounge? asked Winston. We are here to document the records for the Royal World Archives. The clerk stopped and turned around. Winston pointed to the credentials on his pass saying, We're supposed to have access to the records. Not just sit and wait in the lounge. What good is that? Not my decision. Sorry, said the clerk.

Whose decision is it then? asked Winston. There must be some mistake. Don't ask me. I just follow the policy that's given to me. All stenographers, archivists, and documentarians have to wait in the lounge until talks are concluded. Management changed the policy on us this morning. Talk about late notice. But they don't care. They're not the ones running around out here in the rain. Don't you think it's a bit strange that no one is allowed to record what's going on here?

asked Winston. Yep, but you see, their decision is binding, and their verdict is final. Winston and I looked at each other, recognizing the clerk had repeated the very same words that had entered Richard's mind after the tribunal had interfered with his decision-making. I tried to break the spell on the clerk by asking him, Is it normal for the policy to change like this? Don't you find those orders questionable? Yep, but it's my job to follow them.

Come on, let's go, said the clerk, unaffected. There was nothing left to do but follow the clerk around to the reception lounge, where we were welcomed by smiling staff and the other shunned guests. As we sat, I said to Winston. Notice how the clerk didn't realize he'd been influenced by the tribunal like Richard did? Yes, said Winston. I'm guessing it's because he wasn't directly manipulated by the tribunal. His seniors were.

And then the clerk just followed the orders of his seniors. So there was nothing supernatural about the obedience of the clerk, I reasoned. No spell to break. Exactly, said Winston. It's in his managers that we need to invoke the awareness like we did in Richard. They're the decision-makers. From them, the chain of command flows downwards to the drones who just follow their orders.

So what can we do? I asked Winston. On the waiting lounge's TV screens, we could see the image of the Carbis Bay Hotel overlaid with the headline. Summit talks currently underway. Let me call Richard, he said. He might be able to pull some strings.

Then Winston walked to the corner of the room for some privacy. and made us call to Richard. He returned with a smile. Okay, so Richard knows the chief of hospitality here. He can't get us out of this lounge, but he might be able to get us onto the receptionist's computer here so we can access the whole system. That's great, I said.

If anyone asks, we just want to record the attendance register for the archives. Got it, I said. After watching the announcements of news from the talk being held in the neighboring room on the TV screens. Winston finally got a message from Richard, then stood up. Time to do this, he said. We found the receptionist in the waiting lounge, who seemed to be expecting us. Here to take the register? she asked. That's right, said Winston. He showed her his pass. I did the same. The receptionist had a concerned expression. Two of you? She asked. I was told it was just one.

Well, we both have the same pass, I said. We work together as one, joked Winston, trying to relieve the tension. The receptionist smiled, a little uncertain. Sure, she said, vacating her chair so we could sit at her computer. Let me just double check with my manager. She left us with the computer. Better be quick, said Winston, jumping into her chair. Winston pulled up every record he could find while I kept one.

watch, inspiring in me some deja vu for the time when he first discovered the redacted records in his office back at the archives while I stood guard. He grunted and clicked, frustrated. Can't find anything, he grumbled. Then I saw the receptionist being briskly led by her manager back across the lounge towards us. Winston, we got trouble, I said, pointing in their direction. He quickly started closing tabs on the screen. Excuse me, gentlemen, said the manager, arriving with air of indignance. Please stop what you're doing. We need to reserve this station for staff only. Relax, said Winston. We have permission from Grant, chief of hospitality, which is taking the attendance records for the Royal World Archives. I understand that, gentlemen, but I have just

been notified of a decision from our executive board that Grant's authorities here are to be suspended, active immediately. And it follows. His permission for you to use this computer. is no longer valid. Wait a minute, said Winston, politely vacating the station so the receptionist could take back her seat. Let me just make a quick call. Then he turned to me and whispered, we need more time. Winston then called Richard, muttered a few words, and handed the phone over to the

hospitality manager, who listened to Richard intently for a minute before replying. That may well be the case, but their decision is binding. Their verdict is final. If you have any further questions, please contact the front desk to be forwarded to the relevant person. He hung up and handed the phone back to Winston. Sorry, gentlemen. Please wait with the other guests and let us know if there is anything else we can do for you. He smiled, turned, and left.

We returned to the sofas to come up with a plan B. The hospitality staff brought us two flutes of champagne. As we sat there, sipping the champagne and racking our brains for another way to, access the records and catch the tribunal red-handed. A breaking news alert appeared on the TV screens. Suspected terrorists, Winston Clark and Timothy Stepfall attacked G7 Summit in Cornwall. Side by side, our faces filled every screen in the room, with warnings rolling by underneath. Armed and dangerous, radical anarchist academics, chemical weapon plot, and so on. All the people in the lounge stopped talking. They stared and pointed at us.

The room froze and orientated all its eyes on us for a moment, before breaking into hysteria. People screamed and ran for the doors while we sat there, dumbfounded, still holding our flutes of champagne halfway up to our mouths. In seconds, the room was emptied, except for Winston and I. We looked at each other, clueless about what to do. When the door at the far end of the lounge burst open and armed police rushed in, With the exit blocked, we had no choice but to run deeper into the hotel.

Sprinting down the corridors and barging through doors, with no idea where we were going, we heard the megaphone shouting after us. A bullet zoomed over my head, and we dived around a corner, then ducked into a closet. Outside, we heard boots run past, and we finally felt safe. Then the door opened. In the doorway stood a police officer who couldn't have been much older than 20. He seemed as shocked to see us as we were to see him. him, looking down his gun to us huddled in the corner of the closet next to a mop and bucket.

His eyes were wide with fear. His grip tightened on his rifle, and he spoke into his radio. Target sighted. He gulped, nervous. I have a clear shot. We begged him. Don't shoot. We surrender. We're not terrorists. His whole body trembled. His finger jittered as it stroked the trigger of his gun. His radio said, his eyes bulged. We screamed. We're innocent.

Don't do it. We're unarmed. He spoke back to his radio. They appear unarmed. His senior replied, Winston's forehead. He flopped dead on my lap. The gun turned to me. Bay!

I awoke handcuffed to a hospital bed. The doctors attending me evaded my attempts to converse. I tried to warn them about the tribunal. They pretended not to hear, until, eventually. One doctor entered to deliver the news I'd been awaiting in fear. You're in Broadmoor Hospital, a high-security psychiatric hospital in Crowthorne, England. Psychiatric? Why am I in a psychiatric hospital? I was shot. The doctor was empathetic. A nice person.

Yes, and you're lucky to be alive. The shot fractured your skull, but your brain was relatively undamaged. So why am I in a psychiatric? facility. You've been having paranoid schizophrenic delusions. What? You repeatedly claim a tribunal is controlling global decisions, that they are trying to have you killed. Yes, and it's true, I said. Look at me. The doctor lowered his gaze, then looked back to me with genuine concern. Try to get some rest, he said, while leaving the room. With my sanity in question, and my credibility ruined. I was no longer able to throw doubt

onto the credibility of the tribunal, and therefore I was unable to break their grasp of influence over anyone. Any attempts to do so would further cement the perception of my insanity. They got me. Over the months, I began to question everything I once thought real, even questioning whether or not the tribunal was real, or was it some paranoid delusion shared by Winston and I?

My mind weakened. I became fickle and fearful. The slamming of a door would make me flinch. With no one to talk to except lunatics, I joined them in lunacy. I slipped in and out of dreams, unsure of where one bordered with another. Sometimes a patient would share with me some hysterical delusion, and I'd find myself buying it without question, only later to realize it was completely ridiculous. I no longer knew how to discern what was real. Eventually, once my skull was healed, it came time for my hearing.

This would decide where I'd be locked up for life, prison, or asylum. I recall not even caring anymore. My physical surroundings meant little. I was lost in my own swirling madness. Sitting before the judge, I recall him concluding the hearing. With what we've seen here today, it seems clear to me that there is only one viable outcome for handling this case of Mr. Timothy Stepfall, lifetime incarceration in Broadmoor. And with that in mind, the judge was interrupted by the sound of the court door open.

When it shut again, the sound made me flinch. Then a clerk came scuttling up alongside the judge to slide a paper under his nose. The judge grunted, nodded, and gestured to the clerk to leave. Then he took a minute to read the document before continuing his sentencing. Mr. Timothy Stupfall, the tribunal of inconspicuously last-minute sentencing has resolved that you had been, through no fault of your own, misled by the machinations of your senior Mr. Winston-Clock, and that, in his absence through death you will, upon release, come to realize that you had been wrong all this time, that the conspiracy. was only in your mind, that Winston had misled you, and that you'd imagined everything elsewise.

You are therefore safe to be released immediately and without further question. The judge banged his gavel, then gestured to the guards, who nonchalantly unfastened my handcuffs, and pointed me towards the door, before turning back to their business. You are free to go, said the judge, before checking his watch. and turning to his aid to ask about the next case, apparently, having lost interest in me, I almost couldn't believe it. But as I stepped towards that door,

stepping towards my freedom, it all began to make sense. As I passed through the door into the sunlight, I realized that I had been wrong all this time, that the conspiracy was all in my mind, that Winston had misled me, and that I'd imagined everything elsewise. The truth is, the tribunal was perfectly just.

They were justified all along. Their decisions were binding. Their verdict was final. SCP 2520, aka the Tribunal, is an unidentified entity which appears throughout history in the form of a tribunal who overturns or amends the decisions of various authorities without question.

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