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Tales of the Ethics Committee: 5 Reasons The Foundation Wants A Robot Army

Wednesday afternoon was best; it was the only day that week that one could reserve the Cordelia Royale Hotel’s conference room, another could to fly into and out of the country without missing work, and another didn’t have cheer practice.

The afternoon was crisp and the clouds were peeled off the blue sky. The hotel's design was a rigid performance of professional colors and sharp geometry. Violet Mesmur stood in the executive conference room. Grey crept up the roots of her hair and age was beginning to crack through the layers of makeup. Dark brown eyes looked down to where a car pulled in. The agents beat the valets to the door and let two people out. A voice in her earpiece said: "Michaels and Young have arrived."

They were in the conference room soon. The wiry Young walked in first. Blonde hair was suffocated into a bun, and nature accomplished the job of makeup. Sleepless nights provided the eyeshadow, and exhaustion was already at work sculpting the face. She took her seat. Michaels followed, the soldier with a buzz-cut. He wore a jacket in Spring, and he folded his aviators up, slipping them into his pocket, as he took his seat besides Young. Another voice in the earpiece: "Lee is here. Kim is a no-show."

Soo-Yun Lee appeared to be already occupied with another meeting — as she entered, she came with a phone to her ear, arguing vehemently with someone in Korean. She was short, long-haired, bespectacled and growing more upset by the second as the argument continued. Another voice over the radio, more uncertain: "Greene has arrived."

The girl who stood at the conference room's open door wore a pleated skirt, jacket and tie colored to match the colors of Dawes Prepratory School. She had red hair tied into a ponytail and glistening green eyes. She flashed a white smile to every uneasy gaze as she walked in, carrying with her a wispy, noxious look. Greene, although the name-tag read Cassandra, and Mesmur's file had no less than 5 other names, took their seat and slid her backpack under the table. She set a water bottle and two pink tablets on the tabletop before sitting back and looking at the others, grinning.

Lee’s phone call ended, security locked the doors and took their positions, and Mesmur took her seat at the head of the table. The recording device sat before her. She reached over and pressed 'record.'

Ethics Committee Negotiations with Groups of Interest on ΩK Scenario Solutions

<Begin Log>

Dr. Violet Mesmur clears her throat and speaks.

Mesmur: I appreciate you all coming to this meeting. You especially, Dr. Young, as you've apparently been taking on a fair few projects involving ΩK.

Young: Many thanks, Dr. Mesmur.

Michaels: Happy to be invited.

Dr. Mesmur adjusts herself in her seat and brings out a briefcase. As she opens it, she continues to speak.

Mesmur: For those of you who are unfamiliar with everyone at the table, my name is Dr. Violet Mesmur, and I am a member of the Ethics Committee.

Dr. Mesmur gestures to Dr. Emily Young.

Mesmur: This is Dr. Emily Young, a prominent doctor in the ΩK scenario with which I'm sure we're all intimately familiar.

Young: Thank you. I've worked extensively with ΩK, including researching under the title SCP-3984, and want nothing more than to contribute to a long-lasting solution.

Dr. Mesmur nods. She removes a few pieces of paper from the briefcase and continues to speak.

Mesmur: Right, yes. The man on the end with the cybernetic enhancements is Captain Eric Michaels, a decorated war veteran and one of the first to… experience ΩK's effects, at least by our records.

Michaels: I'm not all that important. Just here for securi—

Greene: —I like greek letters as much as anyone but could you please familiarize us outsiders with that fancy term you've been throwing at us?

Dr. Mesmur sighs to herself as she continues to remove the final few papers from the briefcase. She turns to Greene.

Mesmur: Well, as you should have remembered from the Societal Census Program surveys you got, ΩK is what we call the scenario that we're all forced to live with. The immortality one? I'm sure you know what I mean.

Dr. Mesmur turns to everyone else.

Mesmur: The person who just interrupted everything is Gregory Greene, though I'm sure they go by a different name now. They are the spokesperson for Full Body Transplants from Prometheus Labs.

Greene: I haven't heard 'Greene' in years. Cassie's fine; new nickname I'm trying to break in.

Greene smiles and waits for a response. No one replies.

Greene: Anyways, many of you are already on our customer lists, so I'm sure you're all familiar with the service I oversee.

Young: Yes, I've… undergone the procedure.

Dr. Mesmur doesn't let Greene continue their comments as she continues her introductions.

Mesmur: And finally, we have a representative from Marshall, Carter and Dark, Ms. Soo-Yun Lee. Though we were expecting Mr. Ji-Su Kim to arrive.

Soo-Yun Lee pulls out a note card and begins to read.

Soo-Yun: Ms. Soo-Yun Lee is unable to make any binding agreements associated with the product Hypnotraline. She is unable to make any statements on Marshall, Carter and Dark's behalf and anything that is spoken by Ms. Soo-Yun Lee is to be considered an opinion.

Soo-Yun puts away the notecard.

Soo-Yun: Mr. Ji-Su will not be coming as he does not speak English.

Michaels: Not surprised they'd send us the diplomatic equivalent of a middle finger. (aside, to Soo-Yun) No offense.

Young: I don't think that's quite appropriate?

Mesmur: No need to be crude, Captain.

Greene: This is actually good. We can tear apart Marshy Carty and Dicky's newest product right here.

Young: Please, I was of the understanding that this was going to be a serious discussion.

Michaels: My bad. Was just hoping we'd actually make something come of this. Not just complain to the underlings.

Michaels is silenced by a glare from Dr. Mesmur.

Michaels: I'll drop it.

Dr. Mesmur straightens the papers in her hand and begins to read the first page.

Mesmur: The meeting here today is to actually address both Prometheus Labs' and Marshall, Carter and Dark's arguably immoral practices regarding their… long term solutions to involuntary immortality.

Mesmur: Dr. Young and Captain Michaels are present to provide alternative solutions from both a professional and a civilian point of view.

Soo-Yun: 'Arguably immoral?' That— that thing is a human trafficker and butcher.

Ms. Soo-Yun points towards Greene.

Greene: Please, apart from Mr. Michaels we're all decent women here.

Michaels: Yes. He's wearing another person. Your people give people inescapable nightmares. We'd like to figure out a way to put an end to both of those things. And since our… usual methods haven't exactly worked, we were hoping to make a deal.

Soo-Yun: And I have to reiterate. I am no longer responsible for, nor capable of, affecting Hypnotraline marketing and distribution.

Young: Then with all due respect, Ms. Soo-Yun, why are you here?

Dr. Mesmur passes along a pair of pages to each of the members present, detailing the potential fallacies in Marshall, Carter and Dark's business plan.

Mesmur: I would like to show everyone some information regarding Hypnotraline and its bootlegged competitors. It's quite obvious that MC&D benefits when their competitors fail, and while that may mean that more people have access to a safe alternative to eternal life and the closest equivalent of death, this does leave millions trapped in their bodies in some form of torture after having been exposed to faulty products. This not only leaves large portions of elderly and unhealthy populations unable to recover in any form, but it also causes them to become a further burden than they were in "life".

Dr. Young briefly reviews the article.

Young: Oh, fuck. I was not aware of this.

Soo-Yun: Well, I am aware of this. I will also state that until Hypnotraline was moved to Mr. Ji-Su Kim's control, there were no manufactured competitors.

Young: What's the prognosis for these people? Do they wake up?

Soo-Yun: I cannot disclose that information.

Mesmur: If you take a look at the files I just handed to each of you, they detail the various ways these competitors torture their customers in the long term. Of course, the most famous defect is permanent sleep apnea; however, other issues include sleepwalking, which as you might guess is far more dangerous when you're unable to awaken from it; and of course, permanent vegetative states rather than comatose ones.

Mesmur: While defects in medicine is something common enough in the pharmaceutical industry, the rate and extent of these defects is detrimental to both people who purchase and use these drugs as well as society as a whole for needing to simply adjust to their new burdens as their family becomes much more difficult to care for.

Young: This… this is awful.

Soo-Yun: It's economics.

Young: Ms. Soo-Yun, you mentioned something about there being no competitors until ownership was transferred? Is that related at all?

Soo-Yun: This is a recorded conversation. I cannot disclose marketing strategies while an active competitor who may have necessitated management changes is sitting at this table.

Young: I think we're a bit beyond that.

Greene: If Pyongyang wants, I can put my fingers in my ears.

Michaels: See? Diplomatic middle finger.

Young: I can't tell which one is the finger.

Soo-Yun: This isn't a sound-byte, or a pre-recorded message. Any actions that affect the marketability of Prometheus Labs' services will affect Hypnotraline's. The product is extremely vulnerable to any and all external changes.

Dr. Mesmur prepares another stapled section of papers to pass out to the people at the table.

Mesmur: Whatever the case may be, Ms. Soo-Yun, your company still arguably has the more moral solution, despite the immoral actions that you may commit in the name of sales.

Dr. Mesmur once again passes out copies of the documents describing the various processes that Prometheus Labs entails regarding Full Body Transplants.

Mesmur: I'd like to draw your attention to the kidnapping and preparing of subjects, the disposal of brains, and the distribution of false information to certain customers about the body source. I believe the rest of the document will speak for itself.

Greene: It's not really kidnapping.

A moment of silence passes as those present read.

Michaels: (under his breath) I still can't believe Joyce is ok with this.

Young: With due respect, Captain Michaels, you're the only person at this table who has the… "enhancements" necessary to avoid this stuff. I was born in 1989, and it's, what, 2130? Raise your hand if you've not undergone the surgery?

Only Captain Michaels raises his hand.

Michaels: Not surprised. Still disappointed.

Young: If FBT didn't exist most of us would be dead. Well, not dead, but worse. Asleep, perhaps.

Mesmur: I myself am ashamed of what I've had to do to continue my research, but I'm proud to say I've only had the one transplant.

Greene: Oh what is this? Are we putting the bottled water industry on trial next?

Dr. Mesmur turns to Greene, glaring.

Mesmur: Are you comparing bottled water to human lives?

Greene: No, I'm comparing bottled water to disposable lives. Look, what do you think happens to the people we use for the procedure? The answer is nothing. Thousands of people are snapped up off the planet every month for organ harvesting, slavery and so on. They're screwed from the get-go, and their future is screwed as well. Is it really fair, then, to just let them go to waste when those of us with the will to live get turned into rotting mummies?

Michaels: Sometimes, it's not their choice. I know, hard to imagine when you grew up with a silver spoon in your mouth.

Greene: Look, what's your name, Young is it? Let me pull up your file, I can tell you exactly where your current… outfit came from. Give me a moment.

Young: That's a bit rich coming from a grown man wearing the skin of an 18-year old girl.

Greene: La vida loca.

Young: At least I had a reason to change beyond getting bored of my own genitalia.

Greene: Ah, here it is. Young, you were fetched off the streets of Lithuania. Your body grew up in a theater, and got its showers in bathroom stalls. You clicked your heels and danced for change in a hat and your parents were… oh, what a surprise… gone. Now, that body is doing jolly good work for the illustrious Foundation, is healthy, vigorous and blah, blah, blah. If we hadn't gotten it, it'd just be another maggot hive, sooner or later. Living fertilizer scraped off the street and dumped into the mud. I don't know about you, but I like to view this industry as a recycling one.

Dr. Young audibly gags.

Greene: I've got your other files too, if you're curious.

Mesmur: Please. This is not what we came here to do.

Greene: You're absolutely right, we should do something. And Prometheus Labs would like some money for it.

Soo-Yun: What?

Michaels: Of course you would.

Mesmur: You really don't expect us to hand resources over, do you? Unless you are able to find a way to humanely deal with the problem at large, the Foundation will not contribute to your company.

Dr. Mesmur turns to Ms. Soo-Yun.

Mesmur: Or yours, for that matter. If you'd like to tell your higher-ups that.

Soo-Yun: Fine.

Ms. Soo-Yun takes out her phone and sends a text.

Soo-Yun: I'll tell you if they get back to me.

Greene: I mean, I couldn't help but notice that one of your issues against this service we all use is disposal. Sure, we could say, launch all the spare brains into space. That was on the table during inception, but that's expensive.

Young: And just have living people floating around in space? What's the benefit of that?

Michaels: You realize that's— It's not like the problem is solved because you've hidden it a couple hundred thousand feet above sea level. Same goes for your landfills. They're still there. They're still suffering.

Soo-Yun: Marshall, Carter and Dark is willing to take actions against certain competitors in exchange for a subsidy.

Young: Is that what they've texted you?

Soo-Yun: Yes. I would be less vague otherwise.

Greene: I'll take bullshit for 400, Jim. Come on, the McDonalds people aren't going to dismantle every drug network in the world just because you lined their pockets. And as for the disposal, I didn't say launch the brains into the stratosphere to create a big jelly ring. I meant far. Into the Sun.

Young: The fucking sun? You're seriously proposing throwing people into the sun?

Greene: I mean, Mars is also free real estate if you want to be picky.

Michaels: Did you hear a word I said about them still being alive?

Young: You know, once I got my credentials back I checked on what Dr. Michaels did with 3984 after I… left.

Dr. Mesmur slams a fist on the table, causing her briefcase to clatter closed.

Mesmur: Is everyone here going to continue to argue about ridiculous ideas or will you allow me to present an ACTUAL idea?

Young: Sorry, Dr Mesmur, I just want to drill into Greene how idiotic he… she is.

Mesmur sighs, and motions for Young to continue.

Young: Dr. Michaels tried to incinerate the brain to see what would happen — nothing. The brain breaks up. Except all the cells are still alive and we had no way of knowing if those animals were still conscious or not. The sun won't fix anything.

Dr. Mesmur glares at everyone. She pinches the bridge of her nose.

Mesmur: Christ almighty, you're all hundreds of years old and you still act like children…

Dr. Mesmur places her hand back down.

Young: Apologies.

Greene: Well, technically—

Michaels: No one cares Greene. You're not a kid.

Mesmur: Dr. Young, I personally am aware of your findings in regards to incineration of the brain. In fact, a secondary reason that I have brought Captain Michaels along to this meeting is because he is the solution we are looking for.

Dr. Mesmur gestures towards Eric Michaels.

Michaels: I actually have to show them, don't I?

Dr. Mesmur nods.

Eric takes off his shirt to reveal his cybernetic replacements.

Mesmur: Captain Michaels' cybernetic implants have been able to not only keep him healthy, but keep him healthy by pre-ΩK standards for the last century. With proper funding and research aid from both Prometheus Labs and Marshall, Carter and Dark, this could be expanded to more complex organs or body parts, or even to android carapaces that can be used to house brains and can be shut off at will. A combination of both of your products, if you will.

Soo-Yun gets up and makes a phone call in the corner of the room.

Young: Captain Michaels, what's, the uh, long-term outlook for your condition?

Young: And by long-term I do mean long-term.

Michaels: I mean, parts degrade, but they can be replaced. Any more than that, I don't know. I just do what the docs tell me.

Greene: What sorts of androids are we talking about? The sort that are just robots that think good or the fleshy ones indistinguishable from normal humans?

Mesmur: Entirely depends on the funding. Ideally, the bare minimum is a carapace that does not require oxygen to operate. This would also greatly help the over-population process, as that would mean that humans could live in areas that were not previously habitable, such as the ocean.

Young: Do we even have enough metal in the planet to do that for everyone? We don't have enough food or water as it is.

Soo-Yun Lee returns to the table, and places her phone face-up upon it.

Soo-Yun: Mr. Ji-Su is listening in. Please continue.

Michaels: Oh. I see we're finally worth your time.

Mesmur: (in broken Korean) Pleasure, Mr. Ji-Su. Glad you could join us.

Ji-Su: (in English) Continue with the speech, Foundation.

Mesmur: I was told there was a language barrier that prevented you from arriving.

Dr. Mesmur looks at Ms. Soo-Yun disdainfully.

Mesmur: In any case, the proposition was simply combining the aspects of both Prometheus Labs' and your own. Creating androids capable of housing brains for the human population. The market isn't necessarily about the product, but about the upgrades and replacements that would need to be made as it decays. Much like a phone, actually. I know you are very focused on market, and I figure this would be a good mid-point for both of our needs. And to address your concern, Dr. Young…

Dr. Mesmur takes out her phone and begins tapping.

Mesmur: I'm sending you an e-mail regarding potential resource usage should this plan go through. This is currently for Foundation eyes only until we receive further funding from other sources.

Young: Understood.

Greene: I can't speak for our friends in Korea, but I can tell you that I am, honestly, not focused on the market. I'm focused on quality of experience. If you can assure me full customization and accuracy with your little android project then I'll pitch it. But that's all.

Young: "Accuracy" being the key word, right, Cassie?

Greene: "Customization" is of equal weight.

Michaels: (to Young) I can't believe he's still hung up about being able to fuck a hundred years down the road.

Young: (in response) Simple things for simple minds.

Greene: And I will add that we have far more repeat customers than first-timers, in case anyone thinks I'm an exception rather than the rule.

Mesmur: Customization is currently higher on the projection table. Being able to look human is less important currently than being able to do certain actions, such as walk and eat and such. Most of those actions are unnecessary, obviously, but considering people still like eating despite their tongues rotting away and their stomach exploding, having those as additional features seems appropriate.

Dr. Mesmur pauses, looking at Greene. She sighs before continuing.

Mesmur: However… accuracy may be something we can commit to should we get substantial funding beyond initial projections.

Young: Even I have to admit that we do have to retain some humanity for this to be marketable.

Greene: "Some?" I don’t want to see Terminators bonking — thank you for that mental image, by the way, you weirdos. I’ll pitch this, hell, I’ll even support it, if you agree to put Prometheus Labs in charge of the aesthetic side of this endeavor.

Young: Define "aesthetic side"? What exactly does that entail?

Greene: Skin, hair, eyes, tongues, fingernails, the works.

Young: So long as you don't get those fingernails from eastern Europeans.

Greene: Very funny. Is that the Lithuanian speaking or the humanitarian?

Young: Oh, fuck off—

Greene: —and no, they'd be synthetic but lifelike. Ideally.

Mesmur: How much do you project that to cost? The majority of the funding we need is gathering resources. Testing and construction is minimal in comparison.

Greene: Hang on, hang on. Before we do that, I'd like to hear what the Thing With Two Heads But Doesn't Talk has to say.

Soo-Yun: (in Korean; into the phone) That question's for you, not me.

Ji-Su: (in Korean) Do not want. (hangs up)

Soo-Yun: He says yes.

Mesmur: You do realize that I just spoke some Korean to you, yes? Would that not make you immediately think that I could understand basic Korean phrases like "I don't want this?"

Soo-Yun: Kim is only in charge of Hypnotraline because the product is so easily pushed to the ropes. I'm smarter, more qualified and far more stable than he is. I'll pitch your idea above his pay-grade, just as he did to me. We will get back to you on this.

Michaels: Huh. Never thought I'd see the middle finger turn itself around. You're pointin' right back at your boss.

Mesmur: Well, that's definitely a pleasant surprise. You're sure you have the credentials to do this, Ms. Soo-Yun?

Soo-Yun: I don't like Mr. Ji-Su. I don't like what he's done to approximately 8 million people, if that number is still holding. I'll be happy to make the sales pitch.

Soo-Yun: I don't need credentials. I have a more stable product to offer, with hopefully decreased expenditures, and excellent powerpoint making skills.

Greene slowly claps.

Mesmur: Dr. Young, Captain Michaels, do you two have any opinions on the matter or are you in agreement?

Michaels: I'm willing to let the kid help with the science project, but she'd need some supervision. Our supervision.

Young: It's the only solution proposed so far that isn't completely abhorrent. Are we taking a vote?

Mesmur: Unless anyone else happened to bring a solution they believe would appeal to us as well?

Young: So far as I can tell, it's robots or the Sun.

Greene: I've already stated that I don't much care either way. This life we all have is actually rather fun, so let's stick to ensuring that.

Soo-Yun: It won't be for much longer. I hope no sudden revelations appear if we do this.

Mesmur: If there are no more questions, shall we put it to a vote?

Young: Aye.

Mesmur: I also vote aye. Captain Michaels? Ms. Soo-Yun? Cassie?

Michaels: Aye.

Soo-Yun: I can't act on behalf for Marshall Carter and Dark. I'll send my aye in the mail once I'm back at the wheel.

Greene: It's a school night and I'm beat. Aye. Just remember who you'll be trusting the design choices to once you get our money.

Michaels: It's like you're trying to make me regret this.

Mesmur: Perfect. This meeting ended sooner than expected, which I'm sure is convenient for those of us who had plans for the night. Shall we adjourn or does anyone have any final words?

Young: Greene, you're not… actually going to school, right?

Greene: Hey, la vida loca.

Michaels: Let's just fix la vida for now.

<End Log>

All five exited the conference room in a calm quiet. Lee and Cassie took the first elevator to the lobby, both smiling to themselves. One was much more brazen and smug than the other, but then again teenagers aren’t exactly the subtle types. The other three took a second elevator. Eric and Emily bid Violet farewell in the parking lot as they walked to their car.

"Back to the airport I, suppose?" Eric asked as he slid into the driver’s seat.

"Not yet. We need to head out west a little ways first."

"Really? Why? Our flight back is in a few hours."

"I know. We have plenty of time. I promised I’d show your sister something, thought you’d want to come along. I mean, I might be breaking a few rules doing this, but the place has been abandoned for some time now."

"Wait, Joyce flew out here?"

Young nodded slowly. "It’s important enough for the airfare."

"Well, I guess we do have time."

"Great." Emily started punching in the address. Eric pulled out of the parking lot and made a left onto a one-way street.

"Where are we going anyways?"

"To see your brother."

Eric shot Emily a confused look as he pulled up to a stop light, “You know his grave is like two states over, right?”

"I’m not talking about the grave, Eric. I’m talking about the body."

Eric froze. He let the words sink in for a few moments. Then the questions came flooding in: Why is the body here? What’s there to see? What happened to Tony?

He decided that maybe, he didn't want to know. But Young wasn't giving him a choice.

"You know, the light’s green."

"Oh, right." Eric pressed the pedal to the floor, and the car raced towards Site-2718.

[scpdata]

And It Starts With A Song

The end of the world starts with a song.

You wake up, still hopped up on the pain pills they pass out like candy here. Someone changed the radio station while you were out, instead of sports scores there's singing. Your head is clearing quickly, not leaving the usual headache behind it, for once. You reach to change the radio station, and stop.

It doesn't hurt.

You look at your arm, at the tubes stabbing into it, and see the sagging skin pull back, tighten, heal. You sit up, and the song grows louder, and you realize that you're sitting up for the first time in months. You wonder if you're dead, if you're dreaming.

You aren't.

One minute has passed since the song started playing.

You try to get up just to see if you can, and you can, and it doesn't hurt. You walk awkwardly, legs still stiff, steps still unsure after so long without use. Your bare feet tingle as they touch the carpet. There is a small cactus perched on the windowsill, and you could swear that it twitches slightly, thorns growing imperceptibly.

Well, you decide, it's a dream. Might as well enjoy it. You step outside into the hallway, and hear the song being broadcast from every speaker in the building

Other doors are opening, all down the cancer ward, and pale people in sky blue hospital shifts are stumbling slightly as they remember what walking is like. You see that some of them still have tumors, those for whom you can tell, and you run a hand over your neck. There's still that small lump. You aren't cured? You feel cured, though…

The small potted trees, placed to give some feeling of life, are rustling as if in a light breeze. You pinch yourself suddenly, automatically, perhaps even unwillingly… it is, after all, a very nice dream. It hurts, but it stops hurting quickly. You walk for the main desk of this, the top floor, the hospital's hospice. The receptionist is standing and staring, and you laugh when you think of how she's been put out of a job. Is this real? Probably not. It seems real, though, and feels real, and by now that's enough. You stroke the lump on your neck again, and it somehow feels bigger.

Two minutes in, and the song plays on.

You need to see the sky.

Three minutes.

You stand on the roof, and hear the song being played from every direction. The grass is green, and trees that had lost their leaves to the sinking heat of autumn are growing new ones, bigger and thicker. People are there, too, just standing and listening. You laugh, loud and without care, and try to sing along, but the song is in words that you do not recognize. It seems as if everything that can play the song is piping it to the heavens, a song of genesis, of life.

Life responds.

A dull ache is there in your neck, you realize. It feels heavier, too, as if padding were being placed on the tumor. You reach your hand up, and feel a mass of flesh twice the size that it used to be. And all the trees put forth flowers at once.

And everything begins to go wrong.

Four minutes have passed since it started.

You see someone down below keel over, suddenly. She vomits, and a sapling shoots up out of the mess. Others begin to clutch at their stomachs, some fall over, many throw up or suddenly vent their bowels. Small plants grow from the waste. You feel nothing but the steadily growing tumor.

You stand, transfixed, until

Five minutes have passed since you first heard the radio sing.

Things are moving faster, now. The grass seems to double in height in a matter of seconds, though from the roof it's hard to tell. New branches are sprouting forth from every tree you can see. Most of the people down below have stopped moving, and you watch as they bleed green that rises towards the sun. It's life, you realize, feeling detached. The hospital was sanitary. You've been fed through tubes for months, but there's bound to be something inside you waiting to grow. You don't care. You've been dying for too long now to care.

You sit down, legs dangling over a rising forest.

Six minutes.

You feel something slip down your side and hit the roof. You feel when it hits the roof. The tumor is spreading, and you watch it bubble outwards, putting forth a tendril here and there, feeling its way. It spreads like living molasses, but full of veins and prickling as it slips over bumps in the surface.

There's something gray in the distance, but coming closer. It's covering the trees, releasing smoke-like clouds as it does.

Seven minutes.

You must be the only one left. The tumor is spreading outwards still, coating the whole roof. It's almost like a gigantic cape. You wonder why you're still alive. The gray has solidified into a mountain of fungus, and you wonder if it will reach the clouds. It's stopped coming closer, though- the trees in front of it have become covered by what look like spider webs, connecting them all together, catching the gray spores and keeping the trees safe. Below you, the roads are no longer visible. The grass has taken over, with an occasional tree poking up from the tangle. The grass , as far as you can tell, is sprouting out and growing connections to nearby stalks.

How can the song still be playing? There can't be electricity, the speakers have surely been in most cases overgrown. It still seems to be coming from everywhere, though not like before. Before, it came from electronics. Now you can feel the voices as if the choir were standing right behind you.

Eight minutes, and you wonder how long the song can be.

The grass below has cut down the trees, joined together and lacerated the trunks, absorbed them and grown taller. The spider webs in the distance begin to cover the mountain of fungus, which fights back with irregular bulges and stick-like protrusions. You have covered the entire roof, and are working your way down the walls, entering windows as you reach them. The people inside have disappeared as far as you can tell. You can tell because the tumor can tell, not with eyes, but you can feel every minute difference in warmth that reaches it, every vibration that passes through the air and the building.

Nine minutes have passed, and you return to your room, slipping in through the window.

Something stabs you when you do. A spike rips through the leathery folds of flesh that were once a tumor. The cactus.

Your skin contracts around the spines, but more keep growing. They impale you, sent into a frenzy of growth by the touch. Spikes erupt from the top floor of the hospital, too fast to be stopped, too fast to be believed. It's odd. You realize, still detached, that you can see it happen. You can see every side of the building at once. The cactus throws quickly growing green balls of itself outward, seeming to double or triple in size before they hit the ground and tear into the grass. It hurts, of course, but that's nothing new.

You try to laugh as you think of a cactus growing here , in autumn no less, but you have no mouth anymore. It's grown over.

The cactus spreads furiously, each mine-like spike ball exploding into maturity in a matter of seconds. They begin to throw their own children outwards as well, and the grass acts as a single being, flowing like water to ice to solidify beneath the baby cacti, not letting them touch the ground. It doesn't matter. The spikes go down and somehow take root. They come up, as well.

Ten minutes, and it's time to die.

Twenty minutes later, and the song abruptly stops. Not that you're there to hear it. Not really. Something survived, though your brain was impaled by a thousand miniature barbs, your body torn from the tumor and used for its nutrients. Some of the flesh survived, carpeting the roof. It may live forever.

It's not a wasteland that you left behind. When the song stopped, so did the changes. At least, so did the speed of the changes. They'll always be happening. They always have been, really. Where the hospital once stood is a world of spikes and thorns, the grass grown together with your cactus to give a clear message to whatever animals may come. Whatever animals there are. You would not recognize them, anyway.

The fungus still stands like a mountain, and will continue to do so, forever. The spider webs grow thick, but no insects will ever be caught. There are no humans left. In some strange spots there are things that were once human. A tower of bone, with eyes peeking out. A hair-covered family of four-armed and legless things, who will continue to etch meaningless inscriptions on crumbling masonry until they at last die out. A cloth-like, almost fluid mass of flesh that wisps through the miles of cacti, parting and reforming around each individual spear.

And the world began with a song

[scpdata]

Incident 239-B - Clef-Kondraki

Re: Internal Affairs Incident between Drs. "Alto" Clef and ████████ Kondraki, ██-██-████.

This report is CLOSED. Any further edits must be approved by an O-5 level authority, except for basic grammatical and spelling corrections. Any further information about this incident should be placed in a supplemental report.

This report compiled by:

01:12 - Dr. Clef/SL█

01:15 - Dr. Kondraki/SL3

04:37 - Kain Pathos Crow/SL4

04:38 - Dr. Gears/SL█

1:19 - Far2/SL█

1:20 - Bijhan/SL█

1:21 - Dr. Bright/SL█

[DATA CORRUPT]

Synopsis

On ██-██-████, Dr. A. Clef made the following recommendation on the log re: SCP-239

My analysis of the situation has led me to the conclusion that SCP-239 is an unacceptable containment and security risk. Although several proposals have been made re: using her for containing other SCPs, the example of SCP-953 and others must serve as a stark reminder of the risks of overestimating the Foundation's ability to control SCPs with reality-altering powers.

I would therefore like to make the following proposal: a dagger will be constructed of SCP-148, capable of penetrating SCP-239's otherwise invincible skin. This weapon will be used to terminate SCP-239 while she is asleep and her powers are neutralized. Because of the danger of SCP-239 awakening and resisting termination, it is my recommendation that the selected operative carry SCP-668 as well, in order to minimize complications.

One of the dangers of this procedure is the possibility that SCP-239 will awaken and perceive the operative as a friend or "good person," thus changing reality to match. It is for this reason that I would like to volunteer to carry out the procedure personally. A review of my personnel file should indicate that my [DATA EXPUNGED] should allow me to carry out the operation even after a reality shift of this nature.

- Clef

Unfortunately, Dr. Clef made the error of transmitting his proposal en clair instead of through secured channels. Knowledge of his plan of action reached several staff members at Site-17. As documented under Incident Report 239-A, SCP-239 had formed bonds with several staff members at Site-17. Whether motivated by ordinary sympathy or, as Clef predicted, due to SCP-239's reality-altering abilities causing those on site to be perceived as friends, several staff members were motivated to take action to prevent Dr. Clef from carrying out his proposed plan of action: in particular, Dr. ████████ Kondraki.

Evidence relating to the resulting incident is, unfortunately, incomplete and unclear at best. Efforts are currently underway to piece together the events that occurred through personal logs, official records, and post-incident interviews.

Surveillance Log x92███, Date █-██-████

23:02 - Dr. Kondraki departs living quarters

█-██-████

00:03 - Access to SCP-408 containment unit authorized by Dr. Kondraki

00:05 - Dr. Kondraki enters containment

05:13 - Dr. Kondraki enters containment

Personal log of Dr. A. Clef, SL█

I, A█████ H████ C███, being of sound mind and body, hereby declare that the actions I am about to take are mine and mine alone, and that I am not acting on the orders of any outside body or official Foundation representative. I also declare that I am a liar. Which part of my prior statement is a lie I will leave for the historians and you post-incident investigators to puzzle over. Perhaps I was lying that I am a liar. There's an infinite feedback loop to crash your brains.

I believe that I have tipped my hand too far, and the time to act is now. If my suspicions are confirmed, and the staff of Site 17 have been compromised, it is only a matter of time before someone there informs 239 of my plan of action. After that, it's impossible to tell what may result. My unique character flaws may help to protect me from any resulting reality shifts, but a CK-Class restructuring is still a CK-Class restructuring. All things considered, I like the world as it is.

I have constructed several weapons out of telekill alloy in the short time I had to prepare: they should provide me with a variety of kill options at varying ranges. Incidentally, I am disappointed in the other members of the Foundation at their lack of initiative: knowing of a highly dangerous Keter-class SCP's vulnerability, they nonetheless refused to neutralize it. Perhaps this is a result of the SCP's reality-altering powers, or perhaps it is simple sentimentality towards a dangerous weapon that takes the form of a small child. Probably the latter. My "colleagues" do have a distressing tendency to show unwarranted leniency towards highly destructive humanoid Keter-class SCPs.

Hypothesis: if an enemy wished to destroy the Foundation, all they would need is ten nuclear weapons in the kiloton range, disguised as Girl Scouts.

Unfortunately, I was unsuccessful in securing the Genovese Blade before leaving Site 19, which means that I will be unable to use it to bypass base security. However, my outside contacts have provided me with a variety of technological surrogates which may suffice. In addition, my personal digital assistant has been linked to my ocular and aural implants. In the event of a mission abort or failure, all data regarding this mission shall be immediately transmitted to the GOC, all O5-level Foundation personnel, the FBI's Unusual Incidents Unit, and ███. In the event of personal life sign termination, the Clef unit at the GOC (Treble) is to execute Procedure Pizzicato (Planetary Sterilization).

By the way, I'd like to remind everyone reading this log at Post-Incident Investigation (Hi there, Mel!) that I am a liar and there is no Clef unit at the GOC, no Procedure Pizzicato, and no data dump to be carried out in the event of my death. Probably not. Maybe. There's a good chance of it.

Arrival in ten minutes. Mission begins.

Surveillance Log x92███, Date █-██-█████-██-████

4:45 VTOL 505 arrives at landing pad 7.

4:46 Six (6) Site-17 security agents arrive on-scene.

4:47 Dr. Clef is ordered to exit VTOL 505 and lay down on the ground with his hands on his head. Dr. Clef complies.

4:48 Unknown event. Four (4) security agents temporarily stunned by effects. Remaining two (2) rendered unconscious. Dr. Clef is observed drawing a pistol from his lab coat and firing twelve (12) tranquilizer darts, giving each agent a double-dose of [DATA EXPUNGED].

4:52 Further resistance from Site-17 Security Personnel.

5:02 Resistance neutralized.

5:10 Dr. Clef enters Site-17.

Surveilance Log x92███, Date █-██-████

05:11 Several Level 1 security personnel arrive at Site 17 main entrance.

05:13 Security personnel neutralized by [DATA EXPUNGED].

05:17 Noted change in surroundings, several signs altered, hallway B-7 intersection becomes dead end.

06:02 Large flash of light erupts from hallway B-7.

Personal log of Dr. A. Clef, SL█

It's worse than I thought.

The reality shifts have already started to occur. The walls have shifted, everything's not where it should be. My Site-17 map is completely useless. All I can do is follow the signs and hope they lead me to the right place.

Damn, what the hell is going on here? I could have sworn that was a doorway a moment ago…

Wait a minute.

[Sound of a hand slapping against metal]

Butterflies? [Manic laughter] Konny, you magnificent bastard! I've read your…

[Another male voice is heard saying, "Smile you sonovabitch!"]

[DATA CORRUPT]

Surveilance Log x92███, Date █-██-████

06:04 SCP-408 briefly spotted, before reconfiguration. Dr. Clef identified, Site 17 security alerted.

06:06 Dr. Kondraki spotted, accompanied by 3 other Dr. Kondraki. Subject appears to be holding highly modified camera.

FEED UNAVAILABLE

06:10 Security teams dispatched to containment unit of SCP-239.

FEED AVAILABLE

06:20 Dr. Kondraki neutralized, Dr. Clef leaves hallway B-7

Personal log of Dr. A. Clef, SL█

Konny, you clever, clever bastard! Talked to 408, did you? Convinced them to help you… or did the damn bugs volunteer to do it on their own? No matter, you win this round. Clipped me pretty good, huh? Well, now you're dead… at least, one of you is, I think. Two bullets in the heart, one in the head, you'd think that would be enough, but no, you just had to keep coming, didn't you? Made me get up close and use the knife, didn't you?

Why did you do it, Konny? Are you working for her, now? Did she call you her snuggle-lumpkin, and turn you into her pet? Or are you just doing this because she looks like a little girl, and your damnable genes that tell you that children are to be loved and protected are firing ten thousand fold? It's not a child, Konny, it's a monster, the worst kind of monster, one that hides in plain sight, makes you love it before it butchers you alive.

Whatever you had in that damn flashbulb took out my eyes. I'm thinking second degree burns on my face and forearms, and my retinas are fried to hell. That's fine, they'll grow back. Until then, I can't see a damn thing, but my ocular implants still work. I can still finish the mission.

I just need some help. And I think I know where to find it.

6:25 Site-17 Security Team Bravo ceases to exist.

6:30 Site-17 Security Team Bravo re-emerges, wearing full-plate armor, carrying heaters and arming swords.

6:35 Site-17 Security Team Bravo engages Dr. Clef in hallway B-9.

6:36 Site-17 Security Team Bravo neutralized.

6:37 Dr. Clef ceases movement.

6:38 Dr. Clef proceeds to containment facility for SCP-091-ARC.

6:45 Containment Breach. Biohazard Level 4 Alert. Site-17 goes into Biohazard Lockdown. Automated alert goes out to all other SCP Foundation bases, requesting assistance. Kain Pathos Crow and Dr. Gears respond.

7:01 Hall B7 secure, no movement detected.

7:12 Movement detected, SCP-408 uncloaks. Dr. Kondraki is wounded.

7:25 SCP-408 departs.

7:26 Dr. Kondraki operating cam.

.

..

…

FEED UNAVAILABLE

Personal log of Dr. A. Clef, SL█

I talked with Siddhartha Gautama once. He told me that the world is an illusion. That nothing that exists is real. You've driven it home for me.

Damn butterflies all over the place. Nothing is real, nothing exists. All is illusion. I walk down a hallway and it turns into a dead end, which explodes into a shower of light. None of the signs lead where they should. None of the walls point where they should go. For all I know, you've gotten the little monster out of the facility already.

Except for one very interesting fact.

Have you ever wondered why women instinctively recoil from me, Konny? Have you ever wondered why I was able to get into 91's pen and let her out, or why 166 and I get along so well? Have you ever wondered why I never talk to 105?

If you knew who I was, you'd understand.

But then, if you bastards knew who I was, I'd be another specimen in your collection. Another number to catalogue and store and contain.

Because that's what you do, right? You catalogue, store, and contain, and watch and watch and watch. Never act. Never move. Never take the initiative.

Even when death is staring you straight in the face.

But I can act, Konny. I can always act. That's why your silly little game can't stop me. Why your silly little butterflies and illusions and parlor tricks will never suffice. Because Gautama was wrong. Not everything is an illusion, and not all illusions are indistinguishable from reality.

For instance, what will happen when I release an elemental spirit of wood from its containment? Well, of course, the entire facility will go into biohazard lockdown. No one gets out. So that little monster is going to be trapped in here with me. No way for you quislings to let her out into the world to destroy us all. Perhaps you think that's all I'm going for.

Here's a little hint, buddy. It's not.

No one's ever seen what Ninety-One looks like when she flowers, or fruits.

I'm about to show them.

7:30 Dr. Kondraki focuses image on Hallway F-19, current location of Dr. Clef

7:35 Dr. Clef is seen embracing SCP-091-ARC. Immediate infection occurs.

7:36 Infection now spreads across 90% of Dr. Clef's body.

7:38 Flowers are seen emerging from Dr. Clef's extremities.

7:39 Flowers begin to exude an unknown pheremone.

7:43 Local swarm of SCP-408 begins to lose cohesion.

FEED UNAVAILABLE

Audio Log s17███-████ Date: █-██-████

<unknown>: [Static]…need assi…P-091-ARC containment bree…

<Operator ██████>: Kondraki, is that you? What the hell is going on down there, they're talking about a full lockdown!

<Dr. Kondraki>: Doct…extremely aggresive…warn Cog an…send help…

<Operator ██████>: Dr. Gears? I just got a report that he and Kain are on the way here, don't worry.

<Dr. Kondraki>: [Pained] ….got it all….wrong…

<Operator ██████>:Doc? Doc?! [indistinct, shouting to someone in background]

[DATA CORRUPT]

Interview Log x████, Date: ██-█-████

<O5-█>: As the first person to become involved in this incident, let’s start with your involvement that night.

<Dr. Kondraki>: I had been tending to SCP-408 that night, making sure maintenance kept the feeders filled properly. It was 408 who alerted me.

<O5-█>: How did SCP-408 know about the situation outside?

<Dr. Kondraki>: Hell if I know, and it wouldn’t tell me at the time. What mattered, however, was stopping Dr. Clef from causing any more havoc.

<O5-█>: If I recall, you weren’t very successful.

<Dr. Kondraki>: No, but then again what could I do? I had a camera and a flock of butterflies. And this wasn’t much of a photo shoot.

<O5-█>: What about SCP-239?

<Dr. Kondraki>: What about her?

<O5-█>: The assumption of Dr. Clef is that you were manipulated into protecting her.

<Dr. Kondraki>: It certainly became the focus of my actions once I figured out his plan, which the idiot had revealed to anyone who cared to look.

<O5-█>: Was it true then?

<Dr. Kondraki>: That I did it all to protect SCP-239?

<O5-█>: That you did it because she wanted you to.

<Dr. Kondraki>: To be honest, with the way that girl works, can I even be certain of my intent? The idea that she used me like that, it scares me.

<O5-█>: It scares you that she can control you?

<Dr. Kondraki>: No, it scares me because if she did, I’ll have to kill her myself.

<O5-█>: One more thing, did you know about [DATA EXPUNGED]

<Dr. Kondraki>: [Laughs] I don’t think anyone doubted she would get caught up in this.

7:46 Entirety of SCP-408's swarm now in disarray.

7:50 SCP-091-ARC has breached containment, Dr. Clef seen leaving containment.

7:53 Humanoid figure seen emerging from cloud of confused 408.

7:57 SCP-408 reverts to basic state, retreats. SCP-336 identified.

8:01 Dr. Clef and SCP-336 seen conversing.

8:03 SCP-336 removes voice modulator.

FEED UNAVAILABLE

Audio Log s17███-████ Date: █-██-████

<Clef>: … you.

<SCP-336>: … me.

<Clef>: … Why are you here?

<SCP-336>: To stop you.

<Clef>: [At this point. Dr. Clef reverted to an unknown language. SCP Linguists have analyzed the content of this audio file, and believe it to be a variant of ancient Sumerian.]

<SCP-336>: [Responds in a similar dialect]

<Clef>: … so there is no other way, then?

<SCP-336>: None. Your motivations may be pure, but your methods are too extreme.

<Clef>: I never stopped loving you, you know.

<SCP-336>: I know.

[DATA EXPUNGED] [It is at this point that SCP-336 removed her voice modulator and began to speak. For the safety of listeners, this portion of the recording was automatically redacted from the record.]

<Clef>: [Cries of pain]

<SCP-336>: Your dedication is remarkable, but you have…

[Shots fired]

FEED AVAILABLE

8:05 Target tracking reacquired. Dr. Clef is seen reloading a handgun, leaning against a wall and clearly shaken. Blood is seen running down from both ears, apparently self-inflicted injuries to both eardrums. A nearby mirror appears to have been shattered with three 9mm rounds. SCP-336 is no longer visible.

8:06 Dr. Clef slumps against the wall and slides down to the ground, appearing to weep. Flowering growths on his body wither and die.

8:08 SCP-408 regains cohesion and begins to swarm around Dr. Clef. Visual contact lost.

Personal log of Dr. A. Clef, SL█

This is [DATA EXPUNGED] previously known as Dr. Clef. I am not making this statement out of my own free will, but under compulsion from the First Wife. Despite my efforts, I was not able to remove my own hearing before a partial command was spoken by SCP-336. I'm not sure what she meant to order me to do, but all I remember hearing are the words, "Tell me the truth."

This is the truth.

… the truth…

[low, manic laughter, breaking into raucous peals]

THE TRUTH!

[Sound of breaking electronics. It is determined that Dr. Clef's PDA was shattered at this point in time.]

Interview Log x████, Date: ██-█-████

<O5-█>: At what point did you become involved in the incident?

<Dr.Gears>: I was doing work with Professor Kain on SCP-244. We had determined that several sections could be retrofitted to be modular. We were working on a new crystal-powered cannon module when site command gave us the order to respond.

<O5-█>: Did you have any prior knowledge of what was going on?

<Dr.Gears>: Somewhat. We had heard an alarm go off, but no “black alert” breach warning, so we had continued work. More, I worked while Professor Kain was providing feedback. The P.A. system came on in the lab, and site command said Dr. Clef was attempting to terminate SCP-239 without approval, and had caused several containment breaches, in addition to harming other personnel, notably Dr. Kondraki. We were to attempt to contain Dr. Clef until site security could respond.

<O5-█>: Did you find that odd?

<Dr.Gears>: What?

<O5-█>: That you were being asked to stop a hostile action.

<Dr.Gears>: No. Dr. Clef’s actions were…unexpected, but I have been called to do many things outside my area of expertise since joining the Foundation.

<O5-█>: What did you do after you received orders?

<Dr.Gears>: Professor Kain entered SCP-244 and stated that he was going to assist Dr. Kondraki. The new module was still attached, and the professor expressed anticipation in regards to using the cannon to disable Dr. Clef. I advised caution; however Professor Kain was already leaving, and may not have heard me.

<O5-█>: You didn’t go with him?

<Dr.Gears>: I doubt I would have been able to render much help. Professor Kain is a brilliant man, in the body of a dog, in a large mechanical combat device derived from several SCP. I am a human being with no combat training, and severely limited emotional response. I responded in the way I felt would do the most good.

<O5-█>: And how was that?

<Dr.Gears>: I went to speak with SCP-239.

<Note: audio recoding system damaged, no audio available>

8:12 Dr. Gears leaves testing area shortly after Kain.

8:20 Dr. Gears gains access to the containment area of SCP-239.

8:21 SCP-239 embraces Dr. Gears, who squats down to be face-to-face with SCP-239. Dr. Gears and SCP-239 appear to converse for several minutes, SCP-239 nodding several times.

8:25 Dr. Gears stands and gestures to the door while speaking. SCP-239 collects her “spell book” and takes his hand. SCP-239 has a very stoic expression, but continues to speak as they leave the containment area.

8:27 Dr. Gears stops and collects a book from a office. It appears to be a Chinese dictionary. Dr. Gears gestures to it and to the “spell book” while speaking to SCP-239. SCP-239 smiles and speaks, then takes Dr. Gears' hand, leading him towards the area of the Dr. Clef incident.

FEED UNAVAILABLE

8:21 Kain Pathos Crow enters the incident area.

8:25 Crow discovers Dr. Kondraki.

8:26 The pair converse for several moments.

8:29 A large syringe emerges from the side of SCP-244 and injects an unknown substance into Dr. Kondraki's left arm.

8:32 One of SCP-244's arms reach inside its cockpit and remove a large pitcher of alcohol, handing it to Dr. Kondraki, despite him visibly refusing.

8:35 Crow speaks to Kondraki, then leaves area.

Personal log of Kain Pathos Crow

Hmmm… The walker is performing admirably, although this should be a good test of its combat abilities, as I've never had the chance to test it in an actually red alert situation. (the Section 24 Incident doesn't count because no one can remember what actually happened, and there wasn't enough left to properly identify)

Still, this is a no kill situation. I like Clef. Maybe I can talk to him. I just need to be wary. Don't want to be caught unawares. Not again. Not like last time.

8:40 Crow enters lockdown area, breaching Containment Door 12 with an unknown explosive projectile in the process.

8:41 SCP-122-D stands in Crow's way and begins barking and growling, baring its fangs.

8:42 Crow walks past SCP-122-D, ignoring it completely.

8:43 SCP-122-D reacts badly to this, attempting to attack Crow and SCP-244. SCP-244 reacts defensively, batting SCP-122-D out of the way.

8:44 SCP-122-D continues to attempt to assault Crow, and is continually warded away by SCP-244 with little effort.

8:47 SCP-244 reacts suddenly, blasting SCP-122-D with what appears to be the newly installed "Crystal Module" and is transformed into solid crystal.

8:48 Crow examines the remains of SCP-122-D, then continues on his way.

Personal log of Kain Pathos Crow

Huh…

Bastard had it coming. Nobody liked that mutt anyway. Make a nice lawn ornament though…

Taken from the Post-Incident Report

… did not realize until after the incident that SCP-547's file had been corrupted by SCP-732, turning an otherwise ordinary pyro-kinetic into an apparent five-elemental abomination. Despite popular conception, the presence of l337-speek is not a positive indicator for SCP-732, which i@#$ awesome in every way and really likes Highlande@$% which is wh@#$ wears a black trench coat and carries a katana, but the sudd@#$ presence of Mary-Sue esque elements unnecessary for conversion of the object, which i@#$onna get to date SCP-105 because she loves me so much@#$

Addition PIR-01: Damn it, someone get me an antivirus program in here@#$why can't you tell i'm not electronic@#$@ …

8:49 SCP-547 leaves confinement as emergency containment procedures fail, proceeds down Hallway G-7.

8:40 Dr. Clef, surrounded by a cloud of SCP-408, proceeds down hallway G-7.

8:41 SCP-547 encounters Dr. Clef.

8:42 SCP-547 engages Dr. Clef. Temperature in Hallway G-7 rises to 500 degrees Fahrenheit, igniting all paper and cloth in the area.

8:43 Smoke fills corridor. Dr. Clef disappears from sight due to density of smoke.

8:44 SCP-547 disappears from sight.

8:45 Shots fired.

8:57 Dr. Clef emerges from smoke cloud, with what appear to be second and third-degree burns over 50% of his body.

9:20 Smoke clears. SCP-547-D seen slumped against the wall, having taken between three and four bullet wounds to the head and upper torso. Subsequent autopsy will reveal that the unusual organ in his chest was shattered by the final round, killing him. (Death was confirmed at 11:27 pm, after the incident was concluded)

3:15 Dr. Bright, currently in the body of SCP-963-D143, an elderly African American female, arrives on site, bearing an ordinary satchel.

3:20 Dr. Bright is taken into custody. Dr. Bright is questioned as to his arrival at a Site whose SCPs he is incapable of interacting with, per his restrictions. The Doctor appears confused, and seems not to understand why he came here.

3:25 Upon examination, it was determined that the satchel contained several SCPs, including SCP-018 and SCP-776. Further questioning reveals the Dr. does not remember gathering these SCPs, nor traveling to Site-17. Dr. Bright is remanded into custody until further orders arrive.

9:15 Dr. Bright stands up in his cell, stating simply, "This is why I was brought here." For unknown reasons, guards on his cell not only allow him to leave, but provide him with the satchel as well.

9:25 Dr. Bright confronts Dr. Clef, with the satchel already open in front of him. There is a discussion between the two, with Dr. Bright holding his hand inside of the satchel.

9:32 Dr. Clef fires one shot into Dr. Bright's head, killing his host body instantly. Dr. Bright dies with a smile on his face, for reasons unknown.

Interview Log x████, Date: ██-█-████

<O5-█>:Dr. Bright, do you have any further idea as to why you ended up at Site-17?

Dr. Bright shakes his head in the negative.

<O5-█>:Are you aware of how you managed to bypass the security measures on the SCPs you collected?

Dr. Bright indicates a negatory.

<O5-█>:Can you please explain the conversation that occurred between yourself and Dr. Clef?

<Dr. Bright>: Oook. Ook eek, ok ook.

<O5-█>:This is ridiculous. I am well aware of the pranks you scientists choose to play upon each other, but this one was undertaken at a poor time. Interrogation of Dr. Bright will continue once he has been returned to a human body.

9:33 Dr. Clef reloads his handgun, "looking" down at the dead body of Dr. Bright. Camera notes an expression of confusion on his face.

9:34 Dr. Clef reaches into the satchel, takes hold of SCP-776.

9:35 Dr. Clef throws SCP-776 against the wall. SCP-776 comes up 3. Water begins to issue forth.

9:36 Dr. Clef rolls SCP-776 a second time. SCP-776 comes up 3 again. Water issues forth at a greater rate of flow.

9:37 Dr. Clef retrieves SCP-776, appears to mutter, "Work, damn it." Rolls a third time. SCP-776 comes up 2. Hallway G-8 quickly becomes frozen in place, cutting Sector 7 of Site-17 off from the rest of the site. Ice will continue to issue from SCP-776 for the next five minutes at a rate of approximately 1000 cubic centimeters every minute.

9:38 Dr. Clef leaves hallway G-8, moving towards the current location of Dr. Gears and SCP-239.

9:39 SCP-018 breaches temporary containment system.

9:31 Dr. Kondraki wakes up, having passed out once injected with unknown liquid by SCP-244.

9:33 Gets up, leg wound seemingly healed, and exits hallway B-7.

9:36 Dr. Kondraki enters living quarters. SCP-408 seen waiting outside.

9:39 Dr. Kondraki still in room, heat signature detected leaving area.

9:43 Dr. Kondraki spotted with SCP-239 and Dr. Gears, now carrying tripod of unknown make and model.

9:44 The two doctors converse, with Dr. Kondraki gesturing to SCP-239 several times.

9:48 Dr. Clef appears.

9:50 Dr. Kondraki engages Dr. Clef.

Investigation Log x77█, Date ██-█-████

The second of the two contraband items that Dr. Kondraki had on his person during the incident happened to be contained within an extra-long tripod. When unscrewed and detached from the main apparatus, the mono-pod of the device acted as a sheath for a straight blade saber of exceptional quality. The make and composition of the blade is still under investigation, but unlike SCP-515-ARC, this one doesn't require SCP classification. At first, a connection to SCP-108 had been presumed, due to the skill with which Dr. Kondraki wielded the blade, but further investigation has revealed that he has more than a simple passing interest in fencing. Details are recorded in Personnel Log cV████.

Partial log, recovered from file-d████.

<Dr. Kondraki>: It’s over Clef, I’ve got the drop on you this time!

<Dr. Clef>: [Gunshots] Why…do you persist in protecting that monster?!

<Dr. Kondraki>: Because, Dr. Clef, things are never quite so black and white.

<Sound of a metallic clattering sound. It is believed that this is the point where Dr. Clef ran out of ammunition and switched to his backup weapon SCP-1023-ARC >

<Dr. Clef>: [Blades clash] You’re the one that’s color blind, Konny!

<Dr. Kondraki>: Where the hell were you keeping that thing this whole time, anyway?

[DATA CORRUPT]

Addendum: To the anonymous employee who took the Site-17 surveillance camera footage of Drs. Clef and Kondraki having a swordfight, set it to the "Highlander" theme song, and posted it to the company intraweb with the title, "There Can Be Only One": We will find out who you are, and when we do, you'll be missed greatly.

P.S. Whose smart idea was it to allow SCP-076 to view the footage?

-O5-█

Interview Log x████, Date: ██-█-████

(forward to 00:42:18)

<O5-██>: Gears, god damn it, what did you say to her?

<Dr.Gears>: Sir, I do not understand your current agitation. The video record is in excellent condition, and the audio in question is 88% complete. You are already aware of what was said, and its effect. I don’t…

<O5-██>: Don’t. Don’t you dare try to pull that with me. I know you Gears, and the logical bullshit you pull with everyone else will NOT work on me. I’ve seen your file, I’ve reviewed the event, so DON’T treat me like a goddamn moron. Now you answer me, and you answer me now, what did you SAY?!

<Dr.Gears>: (silence)

<O5-██>: Gears, what you did could potentially bring down the whole Foundation. What’s more, you broke the goddamn SCP! What the hell were you thinking? She can do ANYTHING Gears. We want to keep her from experimenting, and you do this! You heartless freak, I swear if…

<Dr.Gears>: I understand your frustration, but I do not view it as warranted. I caused the breach of SCP for 239; however I did so in a way allowing for the re-instatement of SCP. I did not just tell her to do what I asked, thereby calling into question the current “Witch-child” control strategy. I used what resources I had available to extend the control strategy, and affect the end of hostilities initiated by Dr. Clef. SCP-239 remains unaware of the full extent of her abilities, only that they may be augmented by “Over Counsel Wizards” and their “emergency spell books”.

<O5-██>: …what the hell are you talking about?

<Dr.Gears>: Dr. Clef had been attacked by the Great Darkness, a mass of formless evil that reached into our world. It had taken over Dr. Clef, and left only a few witches and wizards with any magic left. I, as an Over Council Wizard, was dispatched, along with the swordsman Kondraki, to subdue Clef and drive the evil from him. Working together, SCP-239 and I would be able to use an Emergency Spell book, which can only be used by two wizards at the same time, and only when the Great Darkness is around.

<O5-██>: …And she believed you?

<Dr.Gears>: Sir, with all due respect, she’s eight. Her only question was if she would be allowed to learn to sword-fight as well.

<O5-██>: This is insane… you could have gotten everyone killed! What “emergency spells” did you have her do?

<Dr.Gears>: We started small, with the most basic spell that everyone learns first.

<O5-██>: …which is?

<Dr.Gears>: Magic Missile.

Partial log, recovered from file-d████.

<Dr. Kondraki>: Damn it, Clef, stop this! I don't really want to kill you!

<Dr. Clef>: I… don't want to kill you either… don't want to kill anyone…

<Dr. Kondraki>: What the hell are you talking about? You just murdered two people! Look at yourself!

<Dr. Clef>: Had no choice… had to do it… she can change reality, Konny, she can make the world change just like that…

<Dr. Kondraki>: She's contained! What we're doing works!

<Dr. Clef>: No, it doesn't. It already failed… on me…

<Dr. Kondraki>: … Clef, what the hell are you talking about?

Sudden shout. A female voice can be heard shouting something like, "I cast Magic Missile!" There is a sudden sound of breaking metal, and a scream, then a loud roar.

[DATA CORRUPT]

9:51 Running swordfight to Site-17 Atrium.

9:52 Words exchanged. See Audio Log.

9:55 Dr. Clef observed locking blades with Dr. Kondraki. Dr. Kondraki appears confused.

9:56 Dr. Gears and SCP-239 arrive from eastern entrance. SCP-239 raises her hand, appears to emit a high-energy plasma bolt. SCP-1023 broken. Dr. Clef retreats.

9:57 Kain Pathos Crow breaks through ice barrier. SCP-239 and Dr. Gears hold up books. Dr. Gears points a stirring rod at Dr. Clef, SCP-239 does the same using her "witch's wand."

9:58 Dr. Clef appears to be in pain.

9:59 Dr. Clef suddenly arches his back and screams. Black light issues forth from his mouth and eyes. Dr. Gears appears shocked. SCP-239 appears unfazed. Kain Pathos Crow arrives from western entrance.

10:00 Dr. Clef collapses. Black light turns into a fifty-foot dragon, breaking through the roof of the atrium and causing severe collateral damage to the surrounding facility.

Partial log, recovered from file-d████.

<Unidentifiable male voice> HOLY F—KING SH-T!!!!!!!!!!!!

10:01 Dr. Kondraki appears to be stunned by the events in motion. Kain seen firing crystalline objects from SCP-244.

10:03 SCP-244 has no effect on the Dragon. Dr. Gears takes SCP-239 by the hand, begins to run down Hallway C-12.

10:05 Dr. Kondraki comes to his senses, and recovers the immobile Dr. Clef before running as well. SCP-408 covers his escape.

10:07 The dragon causes further damage to surrounding structures, releases a breath of [DATA EXPUNGED] into hallway.

10:10 Kain catches the dragon's attention, begins to engage the beast.

FEED LOST

Partial Audio log extract from SCP-244's on board recorder

A deafening roaring sound can be heard, followed by sounds of falling masonry

<Kain Pathos Crow>: WELL F—K ME!

Sounds of rapid gunfire

<Kain Pathos Crow>: Alright! Let's see how you like this one you damn bucket of guts!

Sounds of several explosions, which are promptly drowned out by a louder roar.

<Kain Pathos Crow>: … Bugger. That just seemed to piss it o-

Another roar cuts off Kain Pathos Crow, followed by several more explosions, gunfire, and barking

10:08: Dr. Gears and SCP-239 run into the site’s strong room. Dr. Gears closes the outer door, but does not engage the blast door. SCP-239 is seen to be panting heavily, bent over with her hands on her knees.

10:09: Dr. Gears speaks to SCP-239, gesturing to the “spell book”. SCP-239 smiles and opens the book, flipping rapidly through the pages.

10:11: SCP-239 picks up the book, and runs over to Dr. Gears, pointing at a page and speaking rapidly. Dr. Gears nods, then gestures to a wall of emergency supplies while speaking.

10:12: SCP-239 appears to search the supplies, speaking and pointing at things. Dr. Gears moves behind SCP-239 and removes a syringe from his lab coat. Dr. Gears injects the syringe into SCP-239 near the neck. SCP-239 appears to shout, then slumps to the ground. Dr. Gears picks up SCP-239, places an emergency blanket over her, and exits the strong room.

Excerpt of post-Event 239-B psychological evaluation of Dr. Gears

Dr. ████████: Was it difficult to do?

Dr. Gears: What?

Dr. ████████: Inject a child with chemicals, knowing it would induce a coma.

Dr. Gears: The action itself was relatively simple. I have performed many injections in the past, and have developed an aptitude for it.

Dr. ████████: You know that’s not what I meant.

Dr. Gears: If other options had presented themselves, I would have pursued them. None did. The incident had gotten out of control, and SCP-239 may have accidently caused additional danger if she continued to use her power. I took action to protect myself, SCP-239, and the Foundation.

Dr. ████████: You sound like you’re trying to justify it to yourself.

Dr. Gears: It is not an action I would wish to repeat if given other options.

Dr. ████████: What did you say to her, when you picked her up? The video shows you said something in her ear.

Dr. Gears: I don’t think that has any bearing on these proceedings.

Dr. ████████: I feel that it does.

Dr. Gears: …I told her goodnight, and sweet dreams.

Excerpt from Audio Log, Observation Room for SCP-239

██-██-████, ████:██:██, 3 Weeks Before Incident.

[BACK]

<Dr. █████> Hey, Cleffie, what's up?

<Dr. Clef> Nothing much, just dropping by to check up on Coldplay.

<Dr. █████> Coldplay?

<Dr. Clef> 547. He's petitioning to be allowed into Omega 7. Good kid, but too young. I came by to convince him to wait a few years, since he and I seem to get along pretty good. How is our little H███████ G██████?

<Dr. █████> Her name is Sigurrós.

<Dr. Clef> I know, just joking.

<Dr. █████> She's doing all right. We've managed to implant the witch suggestion pretty deeply into her psyche. The number of out-of-control incidents is down to 5% of what it used to be. And she likes her witch hat and wands, too. Spends a lot of time sorting them out, giving them names, experimenting on which ones work best with which "spells." All bull, but we encourage it. It keeps her busy but…

<Dr. Clef> … but?

<Dr. █████> Well, she's been experimenting with "unsanctioned spells." We told her very sternly not to do it, but she tries anyway, when she thinks we aren't looking. We haven't told her about the cameras yet, so we try not to, but we're worried she might have another incident.

<Dr. Clef> Hmmm. Maybe I can help.

<Dr. █████> How so?

<Dr. Clef> Well, if she's not going to listen to dear old Professor █████ and the other Wizard School teachers, maybe she'll listen to Grand Arbiter Clef, the very scary and very stern Wizard Magistrate from the Grand High Wizard Council, sent to discipline a very naughty Student Witch who's been breaking the rules.

<Dr. █████> Think that'll work?

<Dr. Clef> Well, you guys aren't going to do it. You like her too much. And hell, it's okay if she hates me, I'm never at Site 17. I'll be the bad cop, no problem.

<Dr. █████> I'm still not sure.

<Dr. Clef> Would you rather wait until a huge incident occurs and O5 orders a termination?

<Dr. █████> True. If you think you can, go for it.

<Dr. Clef> Trust me, when it comes to scaring women, I'm an expert.

<Dr. █████> [laughter] No argument there.

<Dr. Clef> Want me to do it now?

<Dr. █████> Nah. She's watching "Sleeping Beauty" with Iris right now. Let's wait until they're done first.

<Dr. Clef> "Sleeping Beauty?" Ever tell you I used to have a huge crush on Maleficent when I was a kid?

<Dr. █████> You're shitting me.

<Dr. Clef> Hell yeah, hot sorceress babe who can turn into a huge dragon? How sexy is that?

<Dr. █████> I'm starting to see why you scare women.

[MORE]

From the Diary of Subject SCP-239, discovered shortly after Incident 239-B

Date: [3 days before Incident]

Dear Diary,

I did a bad thing today. I was in the garden, and I saw a dead bird and there was a nest of little chicks above it, and they were all crying for their mommy and I used the Vita spell to bring the bird back to life.

I didn't mean to break the rules, but Grand High Wizard Clef told me that if I broke them again, he would banish me to the Netherworld for a hundred years. I'm afraid of Grand High Wizard Clef. He's so scary.

I hope he doesn't find out. I don't want to die :(

Found in the "Deleted Files" folder of Dr. A. Clef's email account, dated 48 hours before incident.

TO: ALL SCP PERSONNEL

FROM: Dr. A. Clef, Site 19

SUBJECT: STOP ME

To all personnel: secure SCP-239 immediately, and put Site 17 into high alert. You need to stop me, or someone is going to die.

About twenty-four hours ago, I was filled with the sudden compulsion to kill SCP-239. It started as a simple thought, but the obsession is growing stronger. I have reason to believe that my plan may have failed. Damn… I should have known she would misconstrue my talk about "severe punishments." Kids are smarter than that, but dumber too… damn it! Stupid of me! How could I be so blind?

wait, what am I doing? Why am I trying to get you to stop me? That little monster she's too dangerous to live. She broke the rules, now she has to die.

Can't do it offhand, need to do this by the book make a proposal first, that's the ticket. Telekill alloy weapon, that should be able to

[EMAIL ENDS]

10:10 Camera cycles over to Hallway H8

10:12 Entire hallway taken over by aggressive plant life. SCP-091-ARC spotted.

10:14 SCP-336 seen emerging from nearby room, dusting herself off.

10:17 SCP-336 approaches SCP-091-ARC. The two converse for several minutes.

10:23 SCP-091-ARC returns to its containment area, SCP-336 reseals the door.

10:24 Hallway H8’s plant growth begins to quickly subside and retreat back into SCP-091-ARC’s containment.

10:26 SCP-336 trades more words with SCP-091-ARC through the door.

10:28 SCP-336 exits Hallway H8, towards her own containment.

Audio Log c█████-█ Date █-██-████

<SCP-336>: I see that the troubled doctor involved you in this. Poor dear.

<SCP-091-ARC>: [Appears annoyed, angered at SCP-336’s presence. ]

<SCP-336>: You can’t still blame me for that. You know what happened. You know what he meant to me.

<SCP-091-ARC>: <Unintelligible>

<SCP-336>: What a shame, keeping you locked up here…

<SCP-091-ARC>: <Unintelligible>

<SCP-336>: It’s not over yet. These men exist in such a small scope, and we are ever so patient, aren’t we my dear?

<SCP-091-ARC>: [Seems to smile]<Unintelligible>

<SCP-336>: I’m sure he misses you too.

Partial Audio log extract from SCP-244's on board recorder

<Kain Pathos Crow>: Damn damn damn DAMN! Nothing's WORKING! Everything I throw at this… thing, it just shrugs off.

unidentified background noise

<Kain Pathos Crow>: [ Kain growls ] I realise the damn thing is the product of some child's imagination, but doesn't the hero always win in these things? I mean, there's always a knight in shining armour with… a sword!? A sword!

10:20 After engaging the creature multiple times, with no success, Kain Pathos Crow activates a previously unknown attachment of SCP-244, a sword of light emitting from the left upper arm, then engages the dragon once more.

10:24 Despite its initial resistance to the item, Crow is successful in harming the creature, severing a large portion of its tail.

10:30 Crow manages to directly impale the creature mid torso, then decapitate it. Life signs cease.

Partial Audio log extract from SCP-244's on board recorder

<Kain Pathos Crow>: I wonder if anyone will mind if I eat that…

Post-Incident Report 239-B: Long-Term Ramifications (Selected Excerpts)

Item 17: The collateral damage from the incident has caused 45% of Site-17's facilities to become unusable without heavy repair.

Proposal: All humanoid SCPs housed at Site 17 of Safe classification are to be moved to other Foundation facilities for temporary housing. All Keter-Class SCPs housed at Site 17 are to be moved to more stable containment facilities on site. Euclid-Class SCPs may be relocated or terminated, on a case-by-case basis.

Priority: Gamma

Item 22: 80% of Site 17's security staff were incapacitated during the incident. 30% of those incapacitated will require lengthy hospital stays.

Proposal: Security staff from other Foundation facilities will be temporarily transferred to Site 17 on a temporary basis. Site 17 to be temporarily downsized until more security staff can be recruited.

Priority: Eta

Item 97: SCP-239 has demonstrated uncontrollable Keter-level capabilities, indirectly causing the deaths of several SCPs, Foundation personnel, and the destruction of a large portion of Site 17.

Proposal: SCP-239 to remain in a medically induced coma for the time being. Dr. Erica Valdason will supervise the patient.

Priority: Beta

Item 102: Several Foundation personnel went over and beyond the call of duty during this incident, at great personal risks to their own health and well-being.

Proposal: For their ingenuity, bravery, and personal sacrifice, the Foundation will award citations of honor to Drs. Bright, Gears, and Kondraki, and to Administrator Kain Pathos Crow.

Priority: Epsilon

Item 138: Dr. A. Clef's actions during this incident directly caused the deaths of several SCPs, Foundation personnel, and the destruction of a large portion of Site 17. In addition, Dr. Clef has demonstrated several non-standard interactions with female SCPs (namely, SCPs 091-ARC, 166, and 336).

Proposal: In light of these facts, and Dr. Clef's own words during the incident, Dr. Alto Clef is to be classified as a Euclid-class humanoid SCP and secured at Site 17. SCP Number and Containment Procedures will be assigned at a later date.

Priority: Alpha

Supplemental Reports

Supplemental Report 239-B-77, Possible links between incident and ORIA

Supplemental Report 239-B-192, Post-incident interview, Dr. A. Clef

END OF FILE

#scp fandom #scp foundation

[scpdata]

SCP-6091 - The Soviet Method

Item #: SCP-6091

Object Class: Keter

Special Containment Procedures: Foundation personnel are to be embedded in all major transport hubs going into and out of the Soviet Union and Warsaw Pact aligned political entities. Anyone affected by SCP-6091 is to be detained, questioned, and given amnestics corresponding to their time within the USSR.

Foundation agents working within the USSR are advised to use caution when staying within the Stalingrad Oblast1, and acquire whatever information possible on SCP-6091.

Agents are warned that agents of GRU Division-P have similar orders to detain any SCP-6091 affected individuals, and thus, it is of high priority to remove any affected persons from Soviet-aligned states before symptoms begin manifestation.

Description: SCP-6091 is a phenomenon randomly affecting humans passing through the area of the Stalingrad Oblast2 within the Soviet union. Symptoms of SCP-6091 include increased anxiety, burning sensation within the skull, and if left untreated, will escalate to full psychosis. When asked about the nature of their psychosis, patients have reported simply that “It’s watching me.”

While much about SCP-6091 is unknown, amnestic regimens have proven effective in curing its symptoms, provided they remove the memories surrounding when the afflicted individual was presumably infected.

Due to political complexities, additional information regarding SCP-6091 has been incredibly difficult to acquire. Its nature of transmission, geographic spread, and physical appearance, if it possesses any, are unknown.

However, statistical analysis of SCP-6091 affected persons has revealed that those affected all were within the Stalingrad Oblast at some point during their time in the Soviet Union. Anecdotal evidence of when symptoms first manifested suggests that SCP-6091 is in some way connected with historical battles fought in the area during World War 2.

UPDATE: Due to New Information, Current Containment Procedures are Judged Incomplete.

Edits Pending.

In 1991, when the Soviet Union was disbanded, several members of the Soviet paranormal research and response agency (GRU Division P) defected to the Foundation, bringing a wide array of documents dating back decades and shedding light on previously unknown anomalies.

Research into SCP-6091 and the Volgograd Oblast revealed a file dating back to World War 2, labelled simply as “Wrath”, enclosed below. Efforts to corroborate these accounts with the Global Occult Coalition are ongoing.

Relevant Documentation 4/23/1942-5/15/1942

Report on Reconnaissance over Rezekne

Date: 4/23/1942

Allocated Forces Casualties

4 Yakolev Fighters 2 Yakolev Fighters

4 Pilots 2 Pilots

Objective: Reconnaissance on German positions to the north above the city of Rezekne.

Outcome: Failure

Notes: Air wing failed to penetrate German air defense screen. Luftwaffe presence unusually strong in area, as were German ground forces. Had to fall back or face destruction. Recommend additional operations to determine nature of military buildup on this portion of the front.

- Col. Vasily Kunetzov

Report on Reconnaissance in Force over Rezekne

Date: 4/25/1942

Allocated Forces Casualties

12 Yakolev Fighters 10 Yakolev Fighters

12 Pilots 9 Pilots

Objective: Reconnaissance in force on German positions to the north over the city of Rezekne.

Outcome: Failure

Notes: Air Wing nearly destroyed by Luftwaffe forces. Luftwaffe presence far stronger than initially predicted. German ground forces confirmed to be in excess of other portions of the front. Recommend additional ground forces for potential German assault. Surviving pilots Lt. Romanova and Ivanov report visual distortions behind German lines, but could not get close enough to confirm its source.

- Col. Vasily Kunetzov

Report on Bialysk Pocket Encirclement

Date: 4/31/1942

Allocated Forces Casualties

1,400 infantry 1,200 infantry

16 t-34’s 12 t-34’s

Objective: Slow German advance.

Outcome: Failure

Notes: German Panzer divisions encircled town within days, too quickly to reinforce them adequately. Recommend continuing withdrawal from sector to secondary defensive echelon. Encircled troops will continue to delay German advance from within the pocket.

- Gen. Vladimir Kirov

Update on Bialysk Pocket Encirclement (5/1/1942)

Edit (Gen. Kirov): Germans have destroyed pocket of encircled troops in Bialysk with incredible speed, even for the Germans. Fighters sent to determine viability of air resupply turned back with heavy resistance. They repeat reports of intense visual distortions within the pockets.

Report on Trebalynsk Pocket Encirclement

Date: 5/7/1942

Allocated Forces Casualties

6,500 infantry 6,000 infantry

35 T-34’s 34 T-34’s

30 artillery pieces 30 artillery pieces

Objective: Slow German advance.

Outcome: Failure

Notes: We were expecting Bialysk to hold up the Germans for longer. Without its encirclement to divert their resources, they were able to capture Trebalynsk along with a sizable force. However, we are getting sporadic reports from the forces trapped within the pocket via radio, so we will at least be able to keep in contact with our trapped soldiers.

- Gen. Vladimir Kirov

Update on Trebalynsk Pocket Encirclement (5/7/1942)

Edit (Gen. Kirov): The Trebalynsk pocket is reporting strange activity. The Germans aren’t trying to collapse their forces in on them. In fact, they are holding a defensive perimeter around the pocket. Almost like they are afraid of something. Which doesn’t make sense. They've surrounded our forces, why not start closing in? Updates pending.

Update on Trebalynsk Pocket Encirclement (5/7/1942)

Edit (Gen. Kirov): Contact with the Trebalynsk pocket is becoming more and more intermittent. It does not appear to be technological issues on either side of transmission. Possibility of German jamming has been brought up.

Update on Trebalynsk Pocket Encirclement (5/8/1942)

Edit (Gen. Kirov): Reconnaissance flights along edge of Luftwaffe area of control have reported exceptionally vivid visual distortions within the pocket. Said distortions may make future aerial reconnaissance unreliable.

Update on Trebalynsk Pocket Encirclement (5/8/1942)

Edit (Gen. Kirov): We have lost contact with the Trebalynsk pocket.

Report on Kamarov Pocket Encirclement

Date: 5/12/1942

Allocated Forces Casualties

12,000 infantry 11,500 infantry3

24 T-34’s 21 T-34’s

80 artillery pieces 80 artillery pieces

Objective: Slow German advance.

Outcome: Failure

Notes: The Germans have struck again. Without the Trebalynsk pocket to delay them, they could press forward with their assault before we were ready. The Kamarov pocket is still in contact, and has assured us that they will fight to the last. However, we can’t count on our countrymen delaying the Germans, so our strategic retreat must be accelerated. It is vital that we continue to fall back to the Volga.

- Gen. Vladimir Kirov

Update on Kamarov pocket encirclement (5/12/1942)

Edit (Gen. Kirov): We are losing contact with the Kamarov pocket. The distortions are becoming so vivid, we can see them from the hills by our camp. Homes and roads leading one direction in Kamarov change the moment you look away. When we make contact with the pocket, the soldiers within confirm this is no hallucination or trick of the light, it is as if reality itself is being reshaped.

Worse still, even those terrible reports are getting more and more sporadic, as whatever this is continues to rapidly break down our radio communications.

Unfortunately, while I am loathe to go anywhere near that town, I suspect information is going to be the key to victory against this foe.

And the only Soviet soldiers who know anything about this weapon are dying in Kamarov.

I have spoken to Comrade Stalin himself about the situation on the ground, asking to lead a relief mission extract anyone who has encountered this German superweapon.

Kamarov Pocket Relief Mission Report (5/14/1942)

Date: 5/14/1942

Allocated Forces Casualties

18,000 infantry 8,200 infantry4

54 T-34’s 23 T-34’s

Objective: Relieve Kamarov pocket in order to acquire firsthand information on German weapon

Outcome: Success

Notes: It cost thousands of my men, and the Germans almost encircled us in the process. As we retreated, the distortions got closer with every passing minute. I personally saw a T-34 driving on an open road, only to look away for a second as a shell threw dirt over us. When I looked back, the tank had slammed into a townhouse that we had passed a mile back. Eventually, we had to leave several hundred troops behind to delay it or we would have never gotten out. Their sacrifice will be honored.

In the end, we extracted only 500 men from an army of ten thousand.

I hope this was worth it.

- Gen. Vladimir Kirov

Transcript of Private Petrov Debrief

Date: 5/15/1942

Interviewed: Private Ivan Petrov, survivor of the Kamarov Encirclement

Interviewer: General Vladimir Kirov

<Begin Log>

Pvt Petrov: …5

Gen. Kirov: Private. Private, can you hear me?

Pvt. Petrov: slowly nods

Gen. Kirov: Private Petrov, I want you to know, this is a matter of national security. The very Soviet Union’s existence might depend on you.

Pvt. Petrov: nods

Gen. Kirov: Look at me, soldier.

Pvt. Petrov: …I can’t, sir.

Gen. Kirov: What?

Pvt. Petrov: I…I can’t. I saw it.

Gen. Kirov: You saw it?

Pvt. Petrov: I still see it. Every time I open my eyes.

Gen. Kirov: …

Pvt. Petrov: I already opened my eyes for too long. I kept my eyes open all the way here. If I open my eyes any more, I would see it again. And it will see me.

Gen. Kirov: …

Pvt. Petrov: …I am sorry sir.

Gen. Kirov: Private, you have nothing to be sorry for.

Pause only interrupted by sniffling

Gen. Kirov: Private. You are the only one who saw what this thing did, and lived to tell the tale. We need to stop this thing from hurting more people like you. Can you help us?

Pvt. Petrov: …yes.

Отчет о немецком оружии под кодовым названием "Гнев"

Relevant Documentation 6/17/1942-7/10/1942

Correspondence between Colonel Vasily Kunetzov and General Vladimir Kirov

6/17/1942

From: Colonel Vasily Kunetzov

To: General Vladimir Kirov

I was informed that you wished to be kept abreast of any “potential unusual German formations” around Stalingrad. As my pilots were the first to identify this German superweapon, I suspect I know exactly what you are looking for. The good news is, I found it. The better news is, it is here, at the outskirts of Stalingrad. The bad news is, it is here, at the outskirts of Stalingrad.

6/17/1942

From: General Vladimir Kirov

To: Colonel Vasily Kunetzov

Are you sure?

6/17/1942

From: Colonel Vasily Kunetzov

To: General Vladimir Kirov

I sent Lt. Romanova and Ivanov with full squadrons of escorts to confirm. They both agreed that the distortions on the ground were the same. If that wasn’t enough, half of their escorts fell out of the sky when distortions to the air around them caused them to stall. The other half don't exactly know why that happened, but will swear to a commissar about what happened. Apparently the Germans have finally figured out how to get their monster to aim skyward.

6/17/1942

From: General Vladimir Kirov

To: Colonel Vasily Kunetzov

If the Germans are using it that openly so close to the front, they are more confident about their weapon. Pull your planes away from that area, no point in wasting men pointlessly.

6/17/1942

From: Colonel Vasily Kunetzov

To: General Vladimir Kirov

Are you sure? We do not want to lose sight of this weapon.

6/17/1942

From: General Vladimir Kirov

To: Colonel Vasily Kunetzov

Do not worry. This is Stalingrad. We have people on the ground.

Reconnaissance Operation Report

Date: 6/25/1942

Allocated Forces Casualties

10 scouting teams 4 scouting teams

7 sniper teams 4 sniper teams

Objective: Determine location of German weapon Codenamed “Wrath”

Outcome: Failure

Notes: Of the forces involved, all of the lost scouting teams can be accounted for, with those casualties due to conventional enemy action. Of the sniper teams, three were unsuccessful and returned safely, two were lost to conventional enemy action, and two are unaccounted for, presumed killed by the weapon.

- Gen. Vladimir Kirov

Update on Reconnaissance Operation (6/25/1942)

Edit (Gen. Kirov):

Allocated Forces Casualties

10 scouting teams 4 scouting teams

7 sniper teams 3 sniper teams

Transcript of Lieutenant Pavlichenko Debrief

Date: 5/27/1942

Interviewed: Lieutenant Lyudmila Pavlichenko, Soviet Sniper, AKA "Lady Death".6

Interviewer: General Vladimir Kirov

Foreword: Interview conducted shortly after Pavlichenko returned from behind enemy lines.

<Begin Log>

Gen. Kirov: You’re late.

Lt. Pavlichenko: I’m alive.

Gen. Kirov: Which doesn’t mean much if you didn’t bring me any useful information.

Lt. Pavlichenko: I did. I saw the creature you are looking for.

Gen. Kirov: I find that hard to believe, the last man who saw it is a gibbering mess in a padded cell after he tried to claw his eyes out.

Lt. Pavlichenko: Well, I saw something floating, spherical, the size of a tank, and when it spotted me, half the buildings on my street changed positions.

Gen. Kirov: …go on.

Lt. Pavlichenko: I had crawled for days through the rubble, nearly got caught by Germans multiple times. Kept getting lost because the streets and buildings kept changing position. I walked past the same fucking German checkpoint three times.

Gen. Kirov: Well you clearly found your way out.

Lt. Pavlichenko: One night, while I was looking at the stars, the street outside changed position twice while I wasn't looking.

Gen. Kirov: Your point, Lieutenant Pavlichenko. Now.

Lt. Pavlichenko: I told you, I was stargazing, and I realized that despite the building changing, the stars didn't change position.

Gen. Kirov: …the environment was changing, but you weren't changing location.

Lt. Pavlichenko: да. Once I realized that, it was simply a matter of maintaining my bearings and ignoring the environment around me. Found the German camp fairly easily after that, and staked them out. Their security was terrible. Probably thought nobody could get through the distortions.

Gen. Kirov: And?

Lt. Pavlichenko: And one day, they brought something out. It was big. T-34 size at least, possibly larger. It was floating, and they had it covered with a cloth tarp.

Gen. Kirov: So that is how they’re transporting it without going mad…

Lt. Pavlichenko: It is clever. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought it was a large weather balloon. Only when I was close enough I could see something wriggling under the bag through my scope. Unfortunately, I…I think it noticed me.

Gen. Kirov: Noticed you?

Lt. Pavlichenko: Well…something began pushing off the cloth, and the room I was in began to get physically smaller and smaller. It got to the point where I had to use my rifle to keep the walls from collapsing in on me, and even that barely slowed it.

Gen. Kirov: How did you survive?

Lt. Pavlichenko: Ironically, the Germans. I think the distortions began affecting the rest of the camp too, so they thought the creature had gone rogue. The handlers had strange goggles, with glowing wires on them? They had no problem looking at the creature with its bag pulled off, and they began shooting at it. It let out some screech and began bleeding slightly through the bag before calming down, but by then the walls had expanded enough again that I could flee.

Gen. Kirov: …where were the exact coordinates of the camp.

Lt. Pavlichenko: █████ █████, by the █████ █████

Gen. Kirov: Perfect, we can redirect our operations around it, and keep an eye on that sector, good job, Pavlichenko, you may have given us the keys to the end of this weapon.

Lt. Pavlichenko: Thank you sir. I hope the coordinates are useful.

Gen. Kirov: Lieutenant, you have told us so much more than that.

Lt. Pavlichenko: Sir?

Gen. Kirov: You told us it bleeds. If it bleeds, we can kill it.

<End Log>

Diplomatic Missive from the US Office Of the President

We’ve read about your little “Wrath” problem in the southern front. We have a little strategic initiative in the works that has been encountering our own…anomalous…problems when fighting the Nazis. We’re sending some gear, and one of our best men. Good luck, and godspeed.

- Franklin D. Roosevelt

Assessment of Special Advisor Reynolds (6/29/1942)

Commander Reynolds’ expertise has been a boon to our efforts in fighting the Germans. I do not know where he acquired them, but the dozen goggles he brought with him are genuine. I had Lieutenant Pavilchenko look them over, and she confirms they are the same the Germans were using to stare at the creature without succumbing to madness. She was so certain, she offered to take them to the front and test them herself. Such assurances satisfy me, though how the Capitalists got these without even having a presence on the continent still makes me wonder7.

The issue I would raise is not with the materiel our allies have provided, it is with the manpower. Reynolds knows what he is doing, for sure. His Russian is passable, and his knowledge of esoterica and science is unparalleled. Already, he has told us more about our enemy than we have learned in months. Now we know which shadow branch of the Nazi Party is responsible for this weapon, the Obskuracorps.

However, Reynolds is almost too knowledgeable. He is brash, flashy, and above all…American. He is quite certain that he can solve this problem with simply the right implements, and magic. I hope he is right, but I am worried he is not. - Gen. Vladimir Kirov

Update to Reynolds Assessment (6/30/1942)

Commander Reynolds has requested the ability to lead a strike team to take on the creature in a stealth operation. I am currently leaning towards turning him down. This creature has destroyed small armies of men with bullets and bayonets, what can one mage do? He claims that precision strikes on German installations is how he does it in his operations, but this is the Red Army, not the Allied Occult Initiative. We operate on certainties, not hopes. - Gen. Vladimir Kirov

Update to Reynolds Assessment (7/4/1942)

Not hours after I rejected Reynolds’ proposal, he called his organization back in Britain. I do not know how he did so, but within days, he was shipped strange and fantastical weaponry. He has begun publicly testing the weaponry among those aware of Wrath, and openly discussing how he would kill it.

I think he is starting to sway people. And for all that I disagree with him, even I have to admit, a gun that shoots lightning is impressive. - Gen. Vladimir Kirov

Air Battle Report: West Stalingrad (7/5/1942)

Date: 7/5/1942

Allocated Forces Casualties

21 Yakolev Fighters 21 Yakolev Fighters

21 Pilots 20 Pilots

Objective: Reconnaissance on German positions to the west

Outcome: Failure

- Col. Vasily Kunetzov

Air Battle Report: West Stalingrad (7/6/1942)

Date: 7/6/1942

Allocated Forces Casualties

34 Yakolev Fighters 34 Yakolev Fighters

34 Pilots 34 Pilots

Objective: Reconnaissance on German positions to the west

Outcome: Failure

- Col. Vasily Kunetzov

Air Battle Report: West Stalingrad (7/7/1942)

Date: 7/7/1942

Allocated Forces Casualties

6 Yakolev Fighters 6 Yakolev Fighters

6 Pilots 6 Pilots

Objective: Reconnaissance on German positions to the west

Outcome: Failure

- Col. Vasily Kunetzov

Message to General Kirov (7/7/1942)]

7/7/1942

From: Colonel Vasily Kunetzov (Red Air Force)

To: General Vladimir Kirov

The situation in the airspace over Stalingrad is rapidly becoming untenable. It's expanded its field of fire to almost the whole city. Do you know how hard it is to fly when the very air around you changes positions at a moment's notice? While you're being shot at by German flak and fighters?

I can’t keep Wrath a secret when it is annihilating entire squadrons. I can’t get anymore pilots into the air, even under threat of execution. They are saying there is an air defense system that makes it impossible to even approach the German lines. You need to do something, now. Before it gets out and spreads panic in the army. - Col. Kunetzov

Update to Reynolds Assessment (7/8/1942)

I asked Commander Reynolds for a private test of his weapon. After he explained the basics of what it did, how it worked, and what a “lightning elemental” was, I told him I would allow him to go on his mission.

I was going to ask him which men he wanted for his mission, but before I could finish, he had a list of volunteers whipped out and pushed in front of my face.

He is leaving tonight, through something called a “Way”, which none but those on the mission are allowed to see. All I know is that it is some method of getting into the German camp undetected.

The infiltration team looked quite intimidating, dressed in black, carrying massive weapons, and wearing half of those German goggles he delivered.

Truthfully, I hope Reynolds and his team succeed. But my gut, and thousands of dead soldiers don’t believe he will.

And in the event my gut is correct, I have sent Lieutenant Pavilchenko with her own pair of esoteric German goggles to monitor the situation. - Gen. Kirov

Operation "David"(7/8/1942)

Date: 7/8/1942

Allocated Forces Casualties

1 American Commander [TBD]

4 Infantrymen [TBD]

Objective: Infiltrate enemy lines. Find and destroy the German weapon Codenamed “Wrath”

Outcome: [TBD]

Notes: [TBD]

- Gen. Vladimir Kirov

Update on Operation "David"(7/8/1942)

Edit (Gen. Kirov):

Notes: At 2:04 AM, three hours after Reynolds and his team were deployed, there was a crack, like thunder, across Stalingrad. I do not think a man in the city didn’t notice it. And if they didn't, they definitely noticed the ripples of distortions following behind it. I was sitting at my desk when the first tremor hit, and when I blinked, my tent was suddenly facing the opposite direction.

After that point, there was gunfire from behind the German lines.

More cracks echoed across the city, echoed by distortions. But the cracks were decreasing in frequency, until finally, lightning arced from the German lines into the sky, and all was silent.

If I didn’t know better, I would say I saw a sneering, angry face in that lightning.

Update on Operation "David"(7/10/1942)

Edit (Gen. Kirov):

Note: On 7/10/1942, Lt. Pavilchenko returned from her mission behind enemy lines, and is being debriefed concerning the fate of Commander Reynolds and his team.

Update on Operation "David"(7/10/1942)

Edit (Gen. Kirov):

Allocated Forces Casualties

1 American Commander 1 American Commander

4 Infantrymen 4 Infantrymen

Objective: Infiltrate enemy lines. Find and destroy the German weapon Codenamed “Wrath”

Outcome: Failure

Diplomatic Missive from Red Army to the US Office of the President

We regret to inform your government that your advisor, Commander John Reynolds, has died in the line of duty attempting to eliminate the German weapon codenamed “Wrath”. We also regret to inform you that “Wrath” is still fully operational. Rest assured, we will not stop until it is destroyed.

- General Vladimir Kirov

Diplomatic Missive from the US Office Of the President

We are sorry about Reynolds. His family has been notified. He was a good man, and he will be missed. But we have some information that might interest you. We don’t think Commander Reynolds was quite as ineffective as you believe…

- Franklin D. Roosevelt

Предложение операции "Кронос"

Relevant Documentation 11/01/1942-11/21/1942

Correspondence between Joseph Stalin and General Vladimir Kirov

11/01/1942

From: Joseph Stalin

To: General Vladimir Kirov

This is a lot of men to divert to you, Vladimir. Tell me you have a plan.

11/01/1942

From: General Kirov

To: Joseph Stalin

The men are to wedge open the Romanian lines, and draw the creature out. Once it is occupied killing them, the artillery will flatten the creature, and everything else within a mile of the area. The arc of the shells over the horizon and the distance ought to stop its distortions from hitting our artillery in return.

11/01/1942

From: Joseph Stalin

To: General Vladimir Kirov

And how will you make sure that the creature is in the right position?

11/01/1942

From: General Kirov

To: Joseph Stalin

When we lose radio contact with our squads, we will fire on their positions.

11/01/1942

From: Joseph Stalin

To: General Vladimir Kirov

Even if you hit the creature, you will likely bombard our own men as well.

11/01/1942

From: General Kirov

To: Joseph Stalin

That is correct.

11/01/1942

From: Joseph Stalin

To: General Vladimir Kirov

…Acceptable. Proceed.

Operation “Kronos”

Edit (Gen. Kirov):

Date: 11/19/1942

Allocated Forces Casualties

80,000 infantry [TBD]

90 T-34’s [TBD]

2,500 artillery pieces [TBD]

Objective: Destroy the German weapon Codenamed “Wrath”

Outcome: [TBD]

Update on Operation “Kronos” (11/19/1942)

Edit (Gen. Kirov):

Notes: Forward Romanian lines broken. Tactical and strategic surprise achieved. Conventional forces routed.

Update on Operation “Kronos” (11/19/1942)

Edit (Gen. Kirov):

Date: 11/19/1942

Allocated Forces Casualties

80,000 infantry ~1,500 infantry

90 T-34’s 2 T-34’s

2,500 artillery pieces [TBD]

Update on Operation “Kronos” (11/19/1942)

Edit (Gen. Kirov):

Notes: Losing contact with most forward units. Artillery barrage pending.

Update on Operation “Kronos” (11/19/1942)

Edit (Gen. Kirov):

Date: 11/19/1942

Allocated Forces Casualties

80,000 infantry ~4,500 infantry

90 T-34’s 17 T-34’s

2,500 artillery pieces [TBD]

Update on Operation “Kronos” (11/19/1942)

Edit (Gen. Kirov):

Notes: Artillery Barrage miscalculated. Wrath is aware of our presence, and unharmed. Engaging.

Update on Operation “Kronos” (11/19/1942)

Edit (Gen. Kirov):

Notes: Artillery Commander ██████████ has been executed by his commissar. Reason: Gross incompetence

Update on Operation “Kronos” (11/19/1942)

Edit (Gen. Kirov):

Date: 11/19/1942

Allocated Forces Casualties

80,000 infantry ~20,000 infantry

90 T-34’s ~30 T-34’s

2,500 artillery pieces [TBD]

Update on Operation “Kronos” (11/19/1942)

Edit (Gen. Kirov):

Notes: Wrath has fallen back to the town of ██████████. Pursuing.

Update on Operation “Kronos” (11/19/1942)

Edit (Gen. Kirov):

Date: 11/19/1942

Allocated Forces Casualties

80,000 infantry ~33,000 infantry

90 T-34’s ~35 T-34’s

2,500 artillery pieces [TBD]

Update on Operation “Kronos” (11/20/1942)

Edit (Gen. Kirov):

Notes: Wrath is using buildings within town of ██████████ to increase lethality of distortions. Local commanders have pulled back from town proper, and used cover of darkness to encircle ██████████.

Update on Operation “Kronos” (11/20/1942)

Edit (Gen. Kirov):

Date: 11/20/1942

Allocated Forces Casualties

80,000 infantry ~35,000 infantry

90 T-34’s ~40 T-34’s

2,500 artillery pieces [TBD]

Update on Operation “Kronos” (11/20/1942)

Edit (Gen. Kirov):

Notes: Artillery is being positioned around ██████████. Systematic barrage of town being planned.

Update on Operation “Kronos” (11/20/1942)

Edit (Gen. Kirov):

Notes: Artillery barrage commencing.

Update on Operation “Kronos” (11/20/1942)

Edit (Gen. Kirov):

Notes: Distortions in ██████████ becoming visibly more erratic. Buildings are likely being used as rudimentary armor. Artillery pieces moved closer to ensure additional accuracy and lethality.

Update on Operation “Kronos” (11/20/1942)

Edit (Gen. Kirov):

Notes: Forward elements with sightlines on Wrath's area of effect recommend that if we survive this, town of ██████████ ought to be levelled and burned.

Update on Operation “Kronos” (11/20/1942)

Edit (Gen. Kirov):

Notes: We were wrong.

Distortions used as cover.

Wrath is coming for us.

Update on Operation “Kronos” (11/20/1942)

Edit (Gen. Kirov):

Notes: It is going for the artillery.

Update on Operation “Kronos” (11/20/1942)

Edit (Gen. Kirov):

Date: 11/20/1942

Allocated Forces Casualties

80,000 infantry ~50,000 infantry

90 T-34’s ~55 T-34’s

2,500 artillery pieces ~800 artillery pieces

Update on Operation “Kronos” (11/20/1942)

Edit (Gen. Kirov):

Notes: Plan is changed. Forward artillery positions have been fortified to slow Wrath. When they are engaged, rear artillery positions ordered to fire on forward artillery positions.

Update on Operation “Kronos” (11/20/1942)

Edit (Gen. Kirov):

Date: 11/20/1942

Allocated Forces Casualties

80,000 infantry ~60,000 infantry

90 T-34’s ~80 T-34’s

2,500 artillery pieces ~1000 artillery pieces

Update on Operation “Kronos” (11/21/1942)

Edit (Gen. Kirov):

Notes: Distortions have subsided. Infantry elements and remaining T-34's are to sweep forward artillery positions for confirmation.

Update on Operation “Kronos” (11/21/1942)

Edit (Gen. Kirov):

Notes: Forward Infantry Elements are permitted to evacuate soldiers and civilians of ██████████ deemed savable. For those not, Forward Infantry Elements have been informed that all deaths within the town of ██████████ will listed as casualties of Wrath, regardless of forensic evidence to the contrary.

Update on Operation “Kronos” (11/21/1942)

Edit (Gen. Kirov):

Notes: We found Wrath.

Актуальная информация об операции "Кронос"(11/21/1942)

For almost 40 years, GRU Division P covered up discoveries of SCP-6091, but when the Soviet Union fell, it fell to the GOC and the Foundation to do so.

With the documents provided by the Foundation, and Obskuracorps technology confiscated by the Allied Occult Initiative (the predecessor to the GOC), the effects of viewing SCP-6091 can now be adequately neutralized with amnestics and memetic treatments.

Every year, between 5 and 10 fragments of SCP-6091 are discovered by civilian archaeologists, tourists, or construction workers travelling in the area surrounding its neutralization.

All fragments are to be transferred to a joint GOC-Foundation site holding other Obskuracorps artifacts.

Update to Special Containment procedures

ITEM#:

6091

LEVEL2

CONTAINMENT CLASS:

EUCLID

DISRUPTION CLASS:

VLAM

RISK CLASS:

CAUTION

link to memo

Special Containment Procedures: Undercover Foundation personnel assigned to major historical societies and academic institutions are to downplay, discredit, or delete all references to SCP-6091 in modern World War 2 literature.

Additionally, agents from the Foundation and the Global Occult Coalition are to embed themselves in Russian excavation efforts around the Battle of Stalingrad, amnestitizing any civilians who come into contact with SCP-6091. Upon discovery, specialized units are to use level 2 memetic protective equipment to extract remnants of SCP-6091 to a containment site.

While the effects of SCP-6091 are easily mitigated with modern amnestic treatment, the sheer dispersal of SCP-6091 fragments means that containment efforts will likely be necessary for decades to come.9

Footnotes

1. Update (1961): What is now the “Volgograd Oblast”

2. See prior footnote

3. 3,700 (dead/wounded)

7,800 (trapped)

4. Original Document Footnote: 1,200 additional infantry from the Kamarov pocket died in process

5. Notes indicate that Petrov is sitting in a chair at a desk head in his hands, Kirov is sitting across from him. Additional physical movements are noted and added to the transcript.

6. As a female sniper of exceptional skill, Lt. Pavlichenko was a well-known figure in the non-anomalous media of the time. However, GRU Division P documents diverge significantly from her publicly known travels. It is believed that Lt. Pavlichenko's skills were requisitioned for anomalous missions, while a body double made public appearances in her stead to dissuade suspicion.

7. Relevant documentation provided by the GOC has revealed that the goggles were acquired from an Allied Occult Initiative raid on an Obskuracorps facility in Königsberg earlier in the year.

8. Documentation acquired from US archives revealed that this information was acquired via ULTRA intercepts (allied decryption of German radio traffic). Said documentation has been removed from US archives, and is now in joint Foundation/GOC custody.

9. It is likely that the last person infected by SCP-6091 hasn't been born yet.

#scp foundation #scp fandom

[scpdata]

The Young Man

Nobody could like Corporal Lawrence. That's not to say that nobody tried, or that he was somehow unfriendly, merely that he was one of those few that seemed to be “wired” differently. However, in the trenches of World War I, normalcy was at best a relative term, and one that had minimal relation of life, such as it was. Lawrence fought, listened to orders, and didn't disrupt the other soldiers, and that was all that was required. So what if people felt increasingly uncomfortable around him? In a place where the flesh rotting off your bones while you were still alive was the base-line of concern, a little personality conflict ranked several levels below a paper cut.

Lawrence, for his part, dealt with it as he always had. That is to say, remained totally unaware of the avoidance. The same way a man blind from birth cannot mourn the memory of color, Corporal Lawrence couldn't bemoan a lack of company. He was quiet, as he had nobody to talk to, and still, as he had nothing to do for long stretches of time. The enemy trench, less than a mile away, had gone silent for several days, letting boredom and nervousness sink in even more than normal…coupled with the unease that seemed to radiate off of Lawrence like heat waves.

The worst part was that there was no distinct reason to dislike the corporal. He was a plain man, average height, average build, bland of voice and action. Nobody could recall him raising his voice in joy or anger. He did have the occasional odd mannerisms, however. He tended to stare a beat or two longer than was acceptable at people. He rarely slept as well, and bunkmates said he would mumble in his sleep almost constantly. The content of those nocturnal ramblings, when they could be understood, were often odd, and potentially unsettling. One private moved to another barracks when he heard the name of his daughter pass Corporal Lawrence's lips, followed by a bubbling, muffled giggle.

It was strongly theorized that he was sent over the trench by his commanders more out of a desire to have him away than for his minimal combat skill. He and fourteen of his fellows were sent across the nightmarishly scarred waste of the no-man's-land between the trenches, to reconnoiter the enemy trench, and secure it if possible. Many seemed to hope that Lawrence would have the opportunity to prove his devotion to his country by making the ultimate sacrifice for it.

It was while he was gone, that three-day gap as the men held their breath, waiting for a surprise volley of shells, that someone started asking questions. Where as before, it was almost taboo to speak of Corporal Lawrence, since the departure of both him and his “aura”, rumor seemed to descend with the passion of the denied. Nobody remembered him ever talking of home. No sweet-smelling letters came, no soggy, dirt-streaked letters left. He mentioned his dreams often, and griped sometimes with the men over missed foods or pleasures, but never with any real passion.

Questions started to float among even the higher levels of the command. Nobody was able to actually find his station orders. He'd come in with a squad of reinforcements transferred from France…but there was no paperwork. The rest of the reinforcement squad had never seen the man before he'd been lumped in with them the night before the trip, along with the snips and scraps of other squads decimated by the Germans. Whispers filtered among the grunts of the corporal being a curse. Nearly every man who'd shared a bunkhouse with him had gotten trenchfoot, and the rooms he haunted always seemed to smell more musty and sickly-sweet, even for the trench.

The men sent over the no-man's-land with Corporal Lawrence heard and cared for none of this. Just another man among many, all with death certificates awaiting a stamp that could fall at any moment. They moved fast and low, from crater to crater, slipping over slick mud and barbed wire, the only thing that seemed to grow in that blasted waste. Charging the last spurt and into the trench, they were greeted not with the harsh bark of German orders and rifles…but a dense, close silence. Preparing for ambush, the men started to filter out into the tunnels and halls of the trench.

The men, already nervous, were not calmed by their investigation. The trenches stank of mold, sweat, and a thin undertaste of rotten fruit. A vile, cloying slime seemed to have pooled in every divot and crack, sticky as glue and itchy on the flesh. In a world where rats and insects would try to snatch food from your mouth even as you ate, they saw nothing alive, not so much as a fly. An armory lay in chaos, munitions spilled on the ground, rifles tossed like pick up sticks. A mess hall had been reduced to ruins, the tables and chairs piled in the center of the room, charred and twisted, the rations seemingly stamped into the dirt by many feet. And still, nothing, alive or dead, was found by the increasingly anxious soldiers.

Private Dixon found the first body, and managed to cry out before vomiting.

They knew it had been a man only because nothing else of that size could have been there. It lay on the floor of a barracks. The entire floor. The flesh of it had been…smeared, somehow, spread like butter over the rough dirt floor. Bones, already looking pitted and rotten, stuck out at random angles, like dead trees in a still swamp. The skull rested on one of the highest bunks, facing the doorway, ten gleaming white fingertip bones crammed into the cracked eye sockets. As one man went to examine it, he found the back of the skull had been crushed open, the rotting, sagging sponge of a tongue stuffed into the otherwise dry cavity.

More remains were found, each seemingly more unsettling and strange than the last. A ring of hands in a sandbagged watchpost, ten of them, fingers interlaced like a basket, the wrists ragged and broken. Two men in a tunnel, skin leathery and thin as mummies, eye sockets staring and empty, mouths locked impossibly wide, their clothes mere rags under an oily black scum. The latrine sent even the hardiest back, gagging and shivering. Overflowing with excrement and offal, gobbets of meat bobbed and oozed in the foul sludge… the whole surface dotted with what looked like thousands of clean, slick eyeballs, nerves and tendons fanning out like goldfish tails.

Corporal Lawrence was the first to find the hole, the other men loudly debating the better part of valor and their rapid withdrawal from the nightmare trench. It was small, in a section of fresh digging, the start of a new arm of trenches projecting closer to the enemy lines. No more than four feet across, it seemed to be the accidental uncovering of a natural chamber, the empty blackness of it defying investigation. Private Dixon, recovered and blessedly numb from his previous ordeals, saw the corporal prod the edge with his boot, then crouch to peer in…then suddenly slide in head-first before the private could so much as utter a shout of question.

The private was a good soldier, and rushed to the perceived distress of his fellow. When questioned later, he could provide little illumination as to what happened over the two minutes Corporal Lawrence spent in the hole. He could see nothing, the light of a torch seemingly gobbled up a few feet into that dense blackness. There were sounds…the rustle of movement over loose stone or rubble. An odd liquid shifting, a dry rustle that made him think of the insect husks he'd used to collect in the summer. As he shouted for aid, there was a sudden upwelling of a repulsive stench, like a reptile house gone sour and old, and his fellow soldiers found him retching helplessly beside the hole when they came around the turn.

It was as they rushed to Private Dixon's aid that the hand emerged from the hole. They stopped and raised rifles as one body, roaring for the owner of that pale, trembling hand to identify himself. As they watched, another hand joined the first, followed by the pale, shivering head of Corporal Lawrence. He was streaked and smeared with a tarry black ooze, hacking and coughing thinly as he hauled his body up beside that of the gasping private. As they moved to help the men, the corporal vomited up a heavy stream of the same repulsive slime that coated his body in smears and globs, his curled, shuddering body voiding more of it into his saturated, fouled pants. They were hesitant to touch him, finally doing so after the seemingly endless river of grime stopped pouring from him. He was insensible, eyes rolling and wide, body as limp as a boned fish.

The men quit the trench with all speed. Half-dragging the corporal, they ran with no thought to cover or death, only escape. They crossed in record time, falling into their home trench like so much cordwood, gasping and shivering, one man known to have bludgeoned a German to death with a brick curled on the floor in a sobbing heap. The commanders moved quickly, isolating the men and trying to calm the most lucid for a report. What spilled out would have been immediately dismissed as lies and hallucination were it not for the earnest, pleading stares of those reporting. Command calmed them with explanations of battle fatigue and strange gas weapon tests…and shared silent, focused stares as the cowed men were ushered out.

Corporal Lawrence had little to report. Of his time in the hole, he could (or would) say little. He stated that he had slipped, and fallen into what may have been some long-blocked underground pool, or perhaps a buried latrine. Of the sounds and smells reported by the private, he had nothing to say, only that he had struggled a short time, then managed to get back out just as the men arrived. Truly, he seemed none the worse for wear. In fact, he seemed in better spirits than many had remembered ever seeing him, favoring the commanders with a wide, giddy smile as he was dismissed with a warning not to discuss the events.

The corporal proved a changed man over the next few days. He was more talkative, but quickly had men wishing for his old, unsettling silence. He rambled about the joys of close spaces, of creation and destruction that seemed to spring up all around them. About human pleasures missed, the dimensions and ages of which made some men threaten Corporal Lawrence with a quiet and ignoble death…which only seemed to stretch the near-constant smile on his face even wider. Private Dixon, one of the corporal's bunkmates, whispered to a friend that he had woken once to find the corporal standing over him in the night, his eyes as bright and flat as silver dollars. They found the private the next day snarled in the barbed wire, his intestines spread nearly ten feet around him in every direction.

Not one man from that trench survived the Great War, although few died in battle. A wave of sickness took the trench a few days after Private Dixon's death. A strange wasting sickness, it seemed to eat the flesh like acid, men waking to find previously healthy flesh eaten down to the bone, oozing and blackened. A sergeant was found in a latrine, beset by a living carpet of rats. They refused to quit the body even when shot, and attacked several men before the body was recovered. Relief finally came, the bulk of the men being sent to various hospitals, many wasting away before they ever reached a bed.

Corporal Lawrence was remanded to a French mental ward, transferred after several complaints from the hospital proper where he was first sent. It seemed his behavior hinted at a growing mental imbalance, culminating with an attempted sexual assault of a nurse, which ended with the loss of three fingers from her right hand, and the vision in her right eye. The corporal would rant quietly to the other patients, whispers about endless halls, pursuits in the dark, flesh laid out like pages of a book. It was dismissed as so much war fatigue, even as his behavior grew less violent and more unsettling.

He vanished several times from the ward, only to appear several hours later, as if nothing had happened. When pressed, he would begin to sing “My Bonnie Lies Over The Sea” in an endless monotone until the doctors left exasperated. Others on the ward clamored to be transferred from the whispering madman. A stale, musty foulness seemed to sit in the air wherever he stayed, and incidents of infection and the strange, consuming sickness that had beset his home trench seemed to follow him like a cloud. Numerous attempts were made to transfer the man, only to be met with bureaucratic confusion. No records were found of the man. No entry papers, commendations or incidents, not even a birth certificate. Through it all he sat, for hours on end, cross-legged on his bed, occasionally humming tunelessly, or rambling off the names of his ward-mates between short, bubbling giggles.

Corporal Lawrence and eighteen men vanished one November night, between a five minute nurse rotation at three in the morning. The room reeked of rust, oil, mold, and sweet rot. Thick, black swaths of crumbling ooze coated the beds and several of the walls, wide patches of it smearing and eating into the floor. Of the men, there was no sign, at first. As they searched, one nurse shifted a bed aside, only to shriek and nearly trip across one of the sunken, reeking depressions on the floor. In a tight, perfect spiral were what appeared to be hundreds of teeth, resting neatly on the floor. After counting, they accounted for the total of all the teeth of every living soul in that ward…but one.

The corporal was never found, nor were the men. The incident was swallowed by the constant barrage of horrors from the front, and forgotten with ease. Stories of a cursed trench wandered across the front lines, often squelched for being bad luck. Still they came…stories of strange deaths, of disappearing men, found days later, alive, but broken and twisted beyond comprehension. Stories of a strange, dark figure stalking the bomb-riddled towns of Europe.

This may be the only known image of Corporal Lawrence ever recorded, taken several days after his return from the hole in the German trench.

[scpdata]

God Damn It, Every One!

Site-76, December 24th, 2018. 11:27 PM

The last thing D-24899 needed was the grim reaper at the foot of his bed. Sleep paralysis, again? But he could still move. He rubbed his eyes and sat up. Yep, that's the reaper all right. And not a minute too soon. Alright, you finally gonna take me to the other side?

The figure shook its head, or whatever head-simulacrum was hidden under its dark robe.

Wait, I didn't say that. You can read my thoughts.

It nodded.

Shit, okay. Um. Okay. Clear my mind. Do NOT think about stupid shit.

Silence.

…wait a second. You don't have a sickle, so you're not Death. And you don't talk. Are you supposed to be the ghost of Christmas Yet to Come or—

It nodded.

D-24899 let out a sad chuckle. Yeah, great. Okay. Here's the thing: I got really drunk and killed my sister with a kitchen knife, I was on death row for a while, and now I've been transferred to a top-secret military testing facility, or whatever this shithole is supposed to be. If you were thinking of showing me how to save my soul, I'm afraid the options are a bit limited.

Before D-24899 could say anything else, a dark, thick mist from the ghost's robe cut him off, and when it cleared—

Site-76, December 25th, 2018. 9:00 AM

—he and the ghost were standing in his cell. The lights were on. The D-24899 of, presumably, a few hours from now, lay in the bed. His eyes were open, and he was in a cold sweat.

The bulkhead to his cell opened, and a pair of armed guards stood at the ready. "D-24899, there's been a change of plans. You have been scheduled for testing with SCP-1883. Please come with us. …oh, and Merry Christmas." Yeah, fuck you too.

"You too," said his future self. Discreetly grabbing a small metal something-or-other, like a coin, from under his pillow, he followed the guards.

Shit. This is gonna be how I die, isn't it.

Once they were further down the hallway, the guards were distracted by a strange sound coming from the cafeteria. Seeing his chance, the D-24899 of the future clapped their heads together like cymbals, and as they were distracted, stole one of their pistols. Bang, bang.

Spirit, are you warning me against this? Because I wasn't planning on doing it anyway. But the ghost said nothing.

His future self made a mad dash through the corridors, right into the Keter wing. Alarms. An intercom warned personnel of a D-class making an escape attempt, lots of "all staff are advised to remain calm" and "he is armed and dangerous." Aww, I'm flattered!

Finally, he stopped at a large bulkhead labeled with "SCP-140" and every way to say "do not enter' that a weird little boy with a thesaurus could put on his bedroom door. Those were the days. He punched a code onto the numeric keypad — "619400."

With a stiff, demanding, skeletal finger, the ghost pointed to the keypad. Are you telling me to remember this? The ghost nodded.

The alarms kicked into high gear as the bulkhead slowly opened. Future D-24899 dove in as soon as the hole was big enough for a human.

Inside was a room, with a small desk and a black book.

Future D-24899 placed his strange metal coin on the book, "REASSURANCE" side up. With a deep breath, he turned away from the book and shot himself in the right temple.

Present-day 24899's heart sank. Even though his future self died with a satisfied smile on his face — okay, but WHY, though?! — seeing your own dead body was never an enjoyable christmas tradition. Especially the part where the scattered bodily fluids started to move on their own, towards the book — NOPE. Done. I'm done. Wake me up now, please. Done. Wakey-wakey.

Site-76 Director's Office, December 25th, 2018. 2:37 PM

Not yet, clearly. He joined the ghost in the Site Director's office, in the middle of an emergency conference call between three doctors and some jerkass on the phone.

"Are you positive it was a copy of SCP-3922?" said the raspy voice on the other end. "Because we tested it on the written word, and it didn't change a thing."

"But was it tested as it was being written, Dr. Naismith?" said a doctor.

"Yes, but only electronically. There was some minor text corruption when we used a word processor on a computer to write a short story, but it couldn't make any changes to traditional pen-on-paper writing."

The fuck are they talking about?

"It must have affected the way that SCP-140 drew blood from D-24899," said another scientist. Ugh, don't remind me. "Are we sure the book's been neutralized?"

Another researcher pulled up some photocopied pages. "Inconclusive, but it's not taking any more ink. The story leaves off on the Daevite civilization constructing a magical gateway to the 'Great Kingdom of Kor-Bah-Nik' to conquer it - the first of its kind, it says, to be able to safely transfer organic material. Immediately afterward, the 'Indestructible Horde of the Three Moons' comes out, kills all the Daevite aristocracy, liberates the lower classes, and the portal goes into dormancy, so that the Horde can get all their armies ready to brutally enforce world peace in the year 2020.”

Dead silence.

"Merry fucking Christmas to us," said the voice on the phone.

Spirit, I reiterate: the fuck are they talking about?

The Great Desert, Corbenic, December 25th, 2018, 10:20 AM (Site-76 time)

Another shift of scenery, and there stood the D-24899 of the future, naked stamping his feet impatiently, with the Future Ghost of Christmas Future next to him.

Dark sand, bitter cold, and three glowing moons in the cloudy green sky. Is this hell? Do I actually go to hell?!

The ghost shook his head. Well, this sure as shit don't look like Heaven.

The hum of helicopter blades in the distance.

Future Ghost handed Future D-24899 a suit. "He's here," said the Ghost, the actual voice of whom was nasal and very annoying. "Don't think you'll wanna be naked for the President." Wait, what?!

A fleet of dropships descended from the sky, all bearing three crescent moons on the sides. From the biggest and brightest of them came no fewer than 20 soldiers in white armor and gas masks. Are those fuckin' space marines? Trailing behind them, presumably, the "President" — in a blue and gold uniform covered in medals, was a French Senegalese man with a Hercule Poirot mustache, and all the violent self-confidence to not think it was tacky.

Future Ghost saluted, and motioned for D-24899 to do the same.

"At ease, Bones," said the President, shooting the ghost a finger gun. He turned to D-24899: "You, too. Daniel Mortimer, was it?"

"That's me," said his future self.

The President shook his hand. "Girard Niang, president of the Three Moons Initiative. For giving us access to the mortal realm at the cost of your own life, it's my honor to assign you Class-SSSS Elysial Residency conditions in Saklovai, expiring never, and effective immediately."

"How many swimming pools?" said his future self.

"Seventeen."

His future self fist-pumped.

"Let's get you home, Mr. Mortimer," said the President. "By the way, your sister called."

"…What'd she say?"

"She forgi—"

Site-76, December 24th, 2018. 11:40 PM

…and in another flash, D-24899 was back in his cell.

"What'd she say?!" he said, out loud this time.

The ghost didn't respond, only handed him a small business card, with the strange "REASSURANCE" coin glued to it, and the phrase "WILL YOU DO IT?"

D-24899 thought about it for a good ten seconds…

…and threw the card to the side. "This is too fuckin' weird," he said. "I'm going back to sleep. Merry Christmas."

With a heavy sigh, the ghost shook his head, and reached into a pocket of his robe. D-24899 realized, all too late, that the ghost did have a scythe.

(the real) Site-76, December 25th, 2018. 8:20 PM

The director of Site-76 nearly gagged as he walked into D-24899's quarters. He knew there was some sort of fatal incident, and dead bodies didn't scare him after 10 years in command, but 24899's face was another matter entirely. Like something had terrified him in his sleep, to death.

"There were 16 more just like him, this morning," said a security officer. "Cause of death seems to be cardiac arrest."

"Anything unusual about the scene?" said the director.

The officer pulled up a small, metallic disc in a Ziploc bag. "These were found with each body."

The director rubbed his forehead at the sight. More 3922. Dr. Naismith's gonna pop a blood vessel.

Elsewhere, far beyond the plane of mortal consciousness, south of the Great Desert, and at the second-to-last barstool at the Great Mead Hall of Saklovai, the Ghost of Christmas Future drowned his regrets in a tankard of Soma.

"Buck up, Spirit," says an old Londoner, still in his nightgown and cap. "There's always next Christmas."

"Oh, fuck you, Ebenezer."

[scpdata]

December 24th, 2016. The halls of Site-59 were quiet, thanks to the elaborate network of layered soundproofing and noise-cancelling magnetic grids established for Cell 2337. Perhaps this Christmas Eve would indeed be a Silent Night. (Still, thanks to a particularly tactless Keter three floors below, the "Holy Night" aspect was right out.)

Just outside Cell 2337, a small red sock had been duct-taped to the door - filled with gummy worms.

Within the cell, SCP-2337 had just finished its argument for the existence of God to a pile of synthetic bedding material in the corner. Satisfied that the green strands had agreed with its reasoning by disintegrating into warped confetti, the corn crake fluffed out its feathers. It placed its head in a dark toilet paper tube, and, having sufficiently convinced itself that nighttime had come at last, plopped on the ground and snored. The walls of the cell shook from its god-tier napping skills.

A sudden spark in the center of the cell —

"A thing?!" yelped SCP-2337, flapping its arms in alarm. Darting its head from here to there in search of the uninvited Thing, its eyes came at last to a Thin Blue Thing, sitting in the middle of a patch of ectoplasmic fog: A gummy worm.

"Dr. Spanko," moaned the candy. "Your hour of judgment is come."

"Stranglefruits!" said SCP-2337. "Am a Cackmas miracules!"

"Silence! I am the Ghost of Gummy Worms Past, here to show you the error of your ways. Long have you slaughtered my kin with your gluttonous cruelty. But in the end, who is truly devoured? The weak, taken too soon from life and saved? Or the strong, consumed by the weight of—"

Before the ghost could finish, SCP-2337 snatched it in its beak and slid it down its throat in one swift move.

Gourd Cack the us,

Eleventy-one!

(And how!)

#scp foundation

[scpdata]

Item #: SCP-500

Object Class: Safe

Special Containment Procedures: SCP-500 must be stored in a cool and dry place away from bright light. SCP-500 is only allowed to be accessed by personnel with level 4 security clearance to prevent misapplication.

Description: SCP-500 is a small plastic can which at the time of writing contains forty-seven (47) red pills. One pill, when taken orally, effectively cures the subject of all diseases within two hours, exact time depending on the severity and amount of the subject's conditions. Despite extensive trials, all attempts at synthesizing more of what is thought to be the active ingredient of the pills have been unsuccessful.

Note From Dr. Klein:

SCP personnel below Level 3 are now banned from handling SCP-500. This is not to be used to cure a hangover. Get AIDS and then ask permission.

Request 500-1774-k

Dr. [500-0022F] has requested one (1) SCP-500 pill for testing with SCP-038. Request has been approved.

Request 500-1862-b

Dr. Gears has requested one (1) SCP-500 pill for testing in SCP-914. Request has been approved.

Request 500-2354-f

Dr. █████████ has requested one (1) SCP-500 pill for testing with SCP-253. Request denied.

Request 500-5667-e

Dr. Gibbons has requested two (2) pills of SCP-500 for his personal medkit. Request denied.

Addendum 500-1: Two (2) pills have been authorized for use with SCP-008. As a result of conducting a series of tests on Class D subjects infected with SCP-008, it appears that even in the most advanced stages of the disease one whole pill will accomplish full recovery. Number of pills is fifty-seven (57) at the time of writing. - Dr. [500-0021D]

Addendum 500-2: One (1) pill has been authorized for use with SCP-409. SCP-500 was tested on Subject 409-D5 who was exposed to the effects of SCP-409. Complete recovery accomplished. See Addendum 409-1. Number of pills is fifty-six (56) at the time of writing. - Dr. [500-0021D]

Addendum 500-4: Request 500-1774-k approved. Five (5) pills have been used in experimentation with SCP-038. It has been determined that SCP-038 is capable of duplicating SCP-500; however, the success of the duplicated pills is limited. The duplicated pills are only effective in curing the subject 30% of the time, with chance of successful healing dropping as time since cloned increases. In 60% of the cases where the infection is permanent, symptoms of infection remain, though further infestation is neutralized. Repeated dosing with SCP-038 cloned pills is recommended for all personnel suffering from incurable conditions, as supply of SCP-500 remains extremely limited. All five (5) used samples of SCP-500 were returned. Number of pills is fifty-six (56) at the time of writing.

Addendum 500-5: During experiments with SCP-038, one (1) pill was stolen by personnel D-██████ to, reportedly, "cure a hangover". Stricter controls for samples of SCP-500 given to other projects is suggested. Personnel D-██████ has been terminated. Number of pills is fifty-five (55) at the time of writing.

Addendum 500-6: One (1) pill has been used with SCP-231-4. Number of pills is fifty-four (54) at the time of writing.

Addendum 500-7: One (1) pill has been used for Experiment 447-a. Number of pills is fifty-three (53) at the time of writing.

Addendum 500-8: One (1) pill has been used with SCP-208. Number of pills is fifty-two (52) at the time of writing.

Addendum 500-9: Request 500-1862-b approved. One (1) pill of SCP-500 is placed within SCP-914 with the setting at "Fine". Resulting object classified as SCP-427. Number of pills is fifty-one (51) at the time of writing.

Addendum 500-10: Five (5) pills have been taken for the Olympia Project although only two (2) were used. The remaining three (3) will be returned shortly. Upon return, number of pills will be forty-nine (49).

Addendum 500-11: Two (2) pills have been used for Experiment 217-█████-█████. Number of pills is forty-seven (47) at the time of writing.

Addendum 500-12: Request to have SCP-500 investigated for mental compulsion leading to obsessive fixation denied for triviality.

#scp fandom #scp foundation

[scpdata]

Scp-001 is an O5's tale

Good evening, Doctor.

No, no, don't stand up. And, yes, I am who you think I am. Let's not make any more of this than it is. You know my number, and I know enough about you to make a duplicate that even your mother wouldn't be able to tell apart from the real you. No, that's not a threat, just a fact.

Now, as to my business here, it seems you have stumbled upon something above your clearance. Well, no, stumbled is not the right word. Dug up? Perhaps. And you are getting to the point where further digging would end in some fairly lethal gunshot wounds. This would be a sad state of affairs, as you are otherwise quite a good researcher. Therefore, you are getting something very few people in the Foundation ever get… an explanation.

Yes, we were alerted when you first started digging into SCP-001. Every researcher who's been around for a while looks into it. Most are satisfied when they uncover the angel with the flaming sword, it's buried under enough levels. But then you started looking into The Factory, and that is when I knew you wouldn't stop. So, here it is, plain and simple.

The Factory is SCP-001.

But it will never be written up. It was a choice I made early on in the creation of the Foundation, and a choice I still stand by. You researchers are far too curious. I'm not sure which scares me worse. That we'll never understand the Factory… or that we one day will. Ah well, I'm sure you're eager to learn more.

The Factory was built in 1835. Back then it was known as The Anderson Factory, named after James Anderson, a rather well-to-do industrialist. It was built in, well, we'll just say America, and was the largest factory yet designed, a good mile across at its widest, three stories tall throughout, with a special seven story tower by the front gate that Anderson lived in. It was designed to be the ultimate factory, capable of taking care of everything, including the housing of workers. People could be born, work, live, and die, without ever leaving the confines of the Factory. And work they did, on everything from cattle raising and slaughtering, to textiles, to everything else under the sun.

Now, no one knows whether James Anderson was actually a Satan worshiper. It's just as likely that he followed some kind of Pagan gods. What is known is that he was VERY exact in the building of his factory, and in the placement of his machinery within it. Survivors claim the floor was engraved with arcane symbols, that were only visible when blood flowed across them… But then the survivors claimed a lot of things. What is known is that Anderson made his money on the blood and sweat, and sometimes body parts of the lower class. His journals indicate he thought of them as less than human, being put on this Earth only to serve his will.

Of course, at that time, no one knew about his predilections, and so people flocked to the Factory. A place to both work and live at the same time? Well, of course people wanted in! Never mind the harsh hours, working conditions, sadistic security force, and all the rest. Factory workers were forced to work 16 hour days, work only shutting down on Sundays, between sunrise and sunset. Workers were not given individual rooms, instead sharing rooms with eight other people, sleeping in shifts of three. Medical attention was unheard of. If you were injured in the course of your duties, which most people were, you were expected to just keep working. Anyone too injured to work was dragged off by the security, never to be heard from again.

For forty years, the Anderson Factory cranked out all sorts of things for people. Meat, clothes, weapons. Never mind that the beef might be mixed with human. Don't care that the weapons were forged in blood. No attention need be paid that the clothes were dyed with…well, you get the idea. Rumors leaked out, but the products were so good, why bother? Until someone got out.

I never met the brave soul who managed to escape, but she managed to meet with President Grant, and, in 1875, he enlisted my aid. At the time I was… well, it doesn't matter. We'll say I was military, kind of, and that my people were the same. A hundred and fifty good men and some few women, who were often given jobs that weren't supposed to be common knowledge. We'd been cleaning out some Confederate holdouts, and some of the worse things we found down South. So, we did some research, didn't like what we saw, and went in, loaded for bear.

I don't actually remember much about the night it all went down. Most of it blends together in my head. I get flashes, sometimes, of the people chained to the line, living next to dead, and damned hard to tell which was which. Children working underneath machines, the majority of the flesh scoured from their bones by the great wheels and cogs. And the other things…

No, I'm all right. I haven't thought about that night for a very long time. The security force wasn't much of a problem. But then Anderson's creations showed up. He'd been taking the injured workers and, well, experimenting on them. Men, if you could call them men, with multiple arms, sewn together, some of them combined with animals, horrible monstrosities out of mankind's worst nightmares. They kept coming, wave after wave of not quite living creatures. I lost a lot of good people that night. And then we found Anderson's breeding pits, girls as young as eight, chained to the walls, forced to be nothing more than-

I'm sorry. Even today, more than a century later, the memory makes me see red. When we finally found Anderson cowering in his office, we hung him from his tower window, with his own entrails. As he died, he laughed, saying it didn't matter, we could kill him, but his factory, The Factory, would go on. He was still laughing 24 hours later when we finally cut him down, had him drawn and quartered, and then burned the remains. The entire time he uttered blasphemies that I don't like to think about.

We spent a week cleaning that place out, freeing the workers, putting down the things we found in the basements and many lightless rooms. We pulled out things that were useful, stocked them in a house near the gate, tried to make sense of everything. A hundred and fifty of us went into that hell pit that night, and only ninety-three came out. By the end of that week, we were down to seventy-one.

But the things we found in there, my god. Well, you've been with the Foundation a while, they wouldn't seem as amazing to you, but we found toy guns that shot real bullets. A yo-yo that would flay the skin from anyone it touched, hammers that only worked on human flesh. A breed of skeletal horse that ran faster than anything we'd ever seen. Cloaks that seemed woven from the night itself, and let men access a shadowy dimension that… I get away from myself. We found tools, both wondrous and horrible. And we were faced with a choice.

I gathered my highest ranking, well, we'll call them officers, to me, and we tried to figure out what we would do. They all had opinions. The Chaplain, he had gone a little crazed. Thought all these objects must be miracles sent from god, holy relics to be worshipped. Marshall and his little toady Dawkins thought there was a fortune to be made here, making and selling these things to the highest bidder. The Injun we all called Bass, due to his deep speaking voice, he called these things an abomination, and declared that we should hunt down and destroy everything we could find. And Smith thought we should take this stuff back to the president. The only one without an opinion was the old man, but he never said much of anything anyways. We argued for hours, days, trying to work it out. Me, I thought we were sitting on a gold mine, all right. But that we could use these things, these objects, to hunt down some of the scary things we'd run into down South, the other monsters this world had to offer, and use this factory for good, as a place to contain these things, find a way to make them work for our fellow man, or at least protect our fellow man from having to deal with them.

I'm sure you can figure out what happened. The Chaplain snuck away in the night with his devotees, taking a couple of small items with him. Marshall we kicked out when we found him… abusing his authority. He promised he'd get revenge, and that little Dawkins shit led the rest of their group off with some of the juicier items. Bass and his people tried to light the whole damn thing on fire, then just left when it didn't work. And Smith left, to report back to the president. I did manage to get him to promise me he'd tell Grant the Factory had been destroyed. I had big plans for that place.

A'course, it was kinda hard to follow through on big plans when you only have 12 other people to work with. But it was a start.

And it worked, for a while. We had these amazing toys, and finding people to work with us was easy. Back then, going off the grid was as simple as leaving town. We knew what we wanted, we knew what we could be.

Leventhal set out getting us backing. A simple invention here, some well invested money there, it all worked out. White and Jones set out getting us… other backing. In our previous work we'd found out some interesting things about people. Some secrets that powerful men didn't want getting out. And, with our new position helping keep secrets, we got more people asking us to deal with their secrets. Blackmail is a dirty word, but it works. Bright, Argent and Lumineux got to work cataloging the items. Light and Bright's wife, the nurse, they made sure we kept ourselves healthy. Heh. No, it's just, remembering Light. She had such unusual ideas about hygiene, for the time. Brilliant woman. Czov, Fleischer and Carnoff dealt with training the troops. Tesla and Tamlin were in charge of figuring out how to take advantage of the items, without making it obvious.

We were amazing. The city we built around the Factory, which we took to calling Site Alpha, was self supporting. Agents, researchers, operatives of all sorts… not by those names, of course, but those positions. We expanded.

…

I'm sorry, I am an old man. I know I do not look it, but the body lies. The mind… doesn't always remember right. And sometimes I get lost in my memories. Things get confused. But, the long and simple of it is this: We used the Factory. It always seemed to have more empty rooms to store things in. Back then, that was the word for them, things. No Skips then, no. We thought we had the Factory tamed. That's one of the reasons I refuse to quit this job. If there's anything I can do here, it's remind people that we will NEVER tame these things. Contain them, yes, but as we saw with Able, tame them? Never.

After a decade or so, we were pretty organized. The 13 original of us were being called by numbers, not names. We knew how to make things work. And, if a thing or two vanished inside of the Factory, still? And the occasional D-class? What? Yes, we had D-class back then. Disposables. That's where the D comes from. Had to have someone to test things on, Tesla and Tamlin were both very firm about that. But, yes, sometimes we lost people who didn't matter. Adam… sorry, Dr. Bright, was fond of saying it was the Factory taking its toll. You can't get something for nothing.

1911 was when it all went wrong. Things… we called them faeries. An entire race of things, living beside us. They could look the same as you or I. The only obvious difference was an allergy to Iron. Yes, that's why we called them faeries. No, you haven't heard of them. Why? Because it's the one time the Foundation wiped out an entire race of things. Root and branch. And I'm the one who did it.

We'd been hunting them for some time. We'd run into them a time or two before, come out on top. So, when a certain royal asked us for help, of course we were eager to get them in our debt. We've always loved having people in our debt. We sent a team to help out, take care of what we thought was a hunting party. The next time we saw them, their heads were on poles, attached to the saddles of the creatures the Faeries rode, when they attacked the Factory.

It was horrible.

Three words, but they convey so much. I have never… I'm sorry, please, give me a moment. I've never told this part to anyone. You should consider yourself lucky. And, if you ever tell anyone any of what I am about to impart on you, I will not just kill you, but everyone who shares your DNA, in the worst ways possible. You'll think Procedure 110-Montauk is a walk in the park compared to what I do to you.

We lost. The things came, and they destroyed us. Rode over our emplacements, slaughtered our people, shrugged off our weapons like they were nothing. I watched my thirteen go down, left and right, just trying to hold the Factory. And I? I, their leader, their friend, their father figure? Godfather to the Bright's four young children. Confidant, sometimes lover, always the confessor? I ran. I ran like a scared little school boy, deep into the dark guts of the Factory. I was chased by the things, always just one step ahead. I could hear them behind me, feel their breath upon my neck, and …

I came to a door I'd never seen before. A bronze door, covered in Arabic script of some sort. I've never been one for languages, especially not the curvy bullshit the musselmen use. But I didn't care. They were coming for me, and I threw the door open and dived through it. Everything inside… was different. There was a feeling of peace, that nothing could hurt me here. The light was this dark red, but still felt right. My ears were filled with the steady thrumming of a gigantic heartbeat. And, in front of me, were the remains of Anderson. It spoke to me then, but I'll be damned if I could tell you exactly what it said. What it told me was more meaning, than exact. It offered me hope. It told me… it told me that each of the things we had used from the Factory, no matter what we did with them, fed it. Helped it grow. But, if the Faeries took the Factory, they would destroy it, and we couldn't have that. It offered me… a deal. It could remove this event. Make it have never happened. All I needed to give it was… us.

I didn't want to. I knew it was a bad idea. But then, I saw them again, my family, my friends, dead. Dead by the hands of those bastards… I agreed. It smiled. And I found myself once more upon the ramparts, watching the horde of Faeries crest the hill. My Foundation alive once more. In my hands was a weapon. I won't bore you with the details, but we slaughtered them. And, with these new weapons, continued to slaughter them, everywhere they lived, everywhere they bred. My fellow O5s questioned my decision, thinking we should save some, in case we might ever need them… I overruled them.

We moved away from the Factory. Shut it down. Moved our things out of there. We changed the name from things to Special Containment Protocols, focusing on containing them, not… anything else. The others were curious, but understood I had my reasons. I boarded up the Factory. Locked it shut. Buried it under a ton of rubble, saying it was too dangerous. I thought… thought I'd gotten away with it. Until I found a thing on my desk. One of the old toy guns that shot real bullets. And it had the Factory label on it.

… I've sent people in, from time to time, to see what it might be doing. Last time I sent people in to look, there was nothing there. We keep finding Factory items out there. I can't help but think of how many more we don't find. The people who use them, and keep it hidden. I think back to the body telling me how each item used gave energy to the Factory. I never asked it 'energy for what?' I don't think I want to know.

What do we give it? D-class, mostly. Where DID you think all those bodies went? There's a place. Bodies are left, and they vanish. Everyone thinks I'm a genius for figuring it out. Sometimes… sometimes I have to feed it other things. Researchers. Agents. They never know it's coming. It just reaches out and takes them.

But, in the end, we're doing more good by being here. Whatever the Factory wants, whatever it IS… We're doing good here. I have to believe that.

And now you know. Are you happy? I didn't think so. Why tell you? I'm getting old, Everett. Should I die, someone will have to keep feeding it. Maybe you'll be different. Maybe you'll figure out how to stand up to it.

… But I doubt it.

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