April 30, 1998
Able's fists were clenched hard enough to draw blood from his palms. He couldn't hear beyond the tomb, but he knew there were people outside.
He had to kill them. His body felt ready to snap from tension. It was ready to kill, needing to kill as mortal bodies needed to eat and breathe. The urge gnawed at his gut, worse than the hunger of a starving man.
Of late, he had managed to resist for a few minutes each time he was summoned to speak with his brother, but now with freedom so close…
He would wait until his body tore itself apart if need be.
—
In total, the ritual called for eight greater seals of protection, twenty-four minor seals of protection, three Wards of Rath-Ba, and a Matrix of Sav connecting a nodal system of forty-four augmented summoner's circles. The tomb sat in the center of the design, its own sides coated in more crimson runes. The Directors watched from their safe room several hundred feet above. With a button press they could activate Ukelele: with another, they could simply flood and collapse the chamber.
The blood had been easy enough to come by: a mandatory blood drive easily replaced the ritual slaughter of several hundred slaves. More difficult was constructing the actual ritual: it had been cobbled together from fragments of ancient texts and reverse-engineered spell rites millennia old. Enough material had been found in the last four months to triple the number of Daevite artifacts in storage, and that didn't include those items yet to be cataloged, propelling knowledge of the Daevas forward near as far as the Rosetta Stone propelled understanding of the Egyptians.
The chanting began. A full tenth of the Coalition's practicing occultists stood in their circles, swaying along with the undulating, intermeshing words. The tone was haunting, almost melancholy, though tinged with an uglier undercurrent.
Agent Alto Clef stood in his own protective circle, twenty feet in front of the door. His knowledge of Daevic was limited to scraps of the lower tongue, and he knew little of magic. He focused on the door. When it opened, he would be the one to deal with Able, for better or for worse.
The chanting picked up its pace, the words spilling forth with greater power and urgency. A glow filled the chamber, shadows flickering wild and rampant against the walls in a wild dance. Wind whistled in unmoving air, building up to a roar that filled the cavern. The intensity crescendoed into a maddening height, burning and swirling and crashing, and then it stopped. The chant, the glow, and the wind ended as one, like an extinguished candle.
It was done.
—
It was done.
The urge was gone. The knot in his stomach untied, the tension in his muscles loosened. He felt weak, weaker than he had been for a very long time. Confusion roiled in his mind: everything was coming back to him, and it was unfamiliar. Cold, hunger, fear…Had he spent so much time a tool that he had forgotten what it was like to be a man?
Perhaps. If it was so, he would learn again.
Able stood up, and for the first time in over ten thousand years his steps were unsteady.
He pushed open the door of his tomb for the last time.
—
The door of the tomb swung open. Able stepped out, tottering and wobbling like a paralytic learning to walk again. He reached the border of the first ward and stopped.
Clef stepped out of his own circle and walked towards the Neolithic man.
[Looks like we did it.]
Able nodded. He swung his arm sharply, as if swinging a knife. No weapon appeared in his hand.
[Yes. We did.]
Able smiled, turned to the men and women standing at the margins of the circle, and spread his arms in triumph.
[Know this, tribe of Clef! Before you stands a man freed! By all the gods of the River and the Mountain be blessed, and know that I am your kin from this day forward!]
—
O5 SPECIAL ORDER 1998-04-30
In accordance with the original agreement of Project Greenhouse, Agent Alto Clef and all materials related therein is to return to the Foundation on May the second, 1998. In addition, the remains of LTE-9927, custody of KTE-9927-Prime, and custody of KTE-0706 are likewise handed over to Foundation jurisdiction for further study and containment.
BY THE ORDER OF
05-1
05-2
05-3
Foundation A4 Advisory Board
European Field Operations Director LaForte
European General Operations Director Fontaine
United Kingdom General Operations Director Cast
United Kingdom Assistant Director Burr
American General Operations Director Henderson
American Assistant Director Zane
—
“Zane, I don't care what the records say. I never signed that order.”
—
O5 GENERAL ORDER 1998-04-20
Due to recent events involving a change of species, Dr. Adam Crow has been relieved of his position as Administrator. A new Administrator will be appointed by the O5 Board.
BY ORDER OF:
05-1
05-2
05-3
—
Dr. Gerry sat meditating by the Clockwork, letting the metronomic ticking and clicking fill his ears and clear his mind. Thoughts settled into place in time with the music. He was part of the Machine, the Machine was part of him, as Crom and Nala and Grape were of the Machine. Man did not create the Machine: man created machines so that the Machine might inhabit them. The computers he had created with the Clockwork were mere vessels for fragments of the Machine.
A true vessel, proper for the Machine in its fullness and perfection of Logic and Reason, would come in time.


September 7
I had a dream last night, something that doesn't happen to me very often at all. I laugh and joke about how I seem to have no imagination at all, but it really is odd that I haven't had one in over ten years now. I'm writing this down before I forget any of it.

I am a doctor, I think. I know it is me, even though I can see her face and I feel like I am watching from over her shoulder. It is a dark, moonless night, and the mountains and fields outside are covered in snow. The cold sinks straight into my bones as I get out of my car and head towards the small, run-down house where I have been called. The mother, a Hispanic woman, is crying frantically and trying to tell me something in nearly-incoherent Spanish. Her daughter is possessed by a demon, she says, and I notice the silver crucifix pendant she wears, possibly the only thing of value she owns.
Her daughter, a girl of maybe eight years of age, kneels in a pool of her own blood. She bleeds from every orifice, and she mouths obscenities that I know to be Latin even though I cannot understand her. But more than anything else, I notice her eyes. They are bloodshot, but even more than that her left eye is completely red, as if it were a clear orb filled with crimson. She laughs at me and I feel a chill deeper than the winter night outside run down my spine.
Time blurs. I know I cannot treat her here. I don't know that I can treat her at all, but I restrain her and wrestle her into my car before I drive off as fast as I dare on the slick, icy road. The blood is the key. It has to be. It flows within her, and it is corrupted. I know what must be done, but I don't know how I can possibly carry through with it. I know I have to get her to a hospital or something. Somewhere. Anywhere.
My heart skips a beat as I realize that I no longer know where I am. There is suddenly an impenetrable mist that surrounds us, and though I see the outline of mountains beyond them, I do not recognize the road I am on. I pull over to the shoulder and stop, turning to look at the girl on the seat behind me. She grins — an evil, toothy grin — and tells me that I cannot escape this nightmare. In that moment, however, I am filled with a grim clarity and I know what I have to do now.
Making sure that she is strapped down tightly, I pull out my tools and instruments. There is no time to actually collect it; I simply start a straight vein-to-vein transfusion between us. Then I slit her wrists. My blood is just enough to keep her alive. Just barely enough to sustain her as she bleeds out the corruption. Her screams echo across the frozen mountains for hours on end.

I woke up screaming and rushed to the bathroom, where I threw up into the toilet. I was still shaking when I finally managed to pull myself to my feet and I washed my face to try to shake off the chill of what I'd experienced. Several minutes passed before I could even manage to look at my reflection in the mirror.
That's when I noticed it.
My eye was bloodshot. But only my left eye.

Containment Team Note:
Document was recovered from the computer of Dr. Evelyn Winters and is dated approximately three (3) days before Incident ███-Zero.
As Dr. Winters is completely incoherent at this stage and we still have no known initial infection vector for SCP-███, we are continuing our investigation as planned.
Dr. █████████
Senior Observer


Sir or Sirs:
When I was five, I was in a theatre fire. A real one, not some hackneyed joke played up for laughs by idiotic teenagers. Upon reflection, I think it was utterly mad that there would actually be a fire—such a clichéd concept, isn't it?—but this was back when smoking was allowed in theatres, so I suppose it couldn't have been that rare.
Some other child, probably not much older than me, screamed that there was a fire, and it was one of those terrifying old movies, something by Murnau, so all the patrons were already absurdly tense. All the children started screaming together in unison. My mother broke my arm dragging me out of the theatre, and four people were stomped to death fighting to get out. That's when I realized how dangerous it was.
Not the fire, of course. No one died from it. People died from the panic. From the other idiots. Trampled to death and unable to defend themselves from the feet of everyone coming down on their face or neck or chest. One of them was another child. Sometimes, I like to think that was the one who warned everyone. A touch morbid, but I know you'll not judge me. How absolutely perfect would that be? A voice that called out to save everyone, crushed to death by the feet of those he would help. It's so wonderfully bittersweet. Nigh unto sublime, but more impeccable than that. Supernal in its delightful tragedy.
That was when I realized it. Ideas. What could be more deadly? The idea of the fire, or the actual fire? What's worse: the thought of grinding a file over your teeth, or actually doing it? How much worse is the idea of a needle sliding into your eye and then jerking out… or someone actually doing it to you? Can a shark be any worse than the idea of one? The absence of one? But then, I'm preaching to the proverbial choir, I believe.
Brilliantly done. I must admit, at first I was skeptical of your vision, but now, I can see the sort of concepts you were hoping to achieve. I hope that you will continue to work like this in the future, building these anti-concepts into things much more beautiful than their terrestrial origins. Of course, we'll supply the funds for your next project. We are, after all, great patrons of the arts, and these pieces are more elegant than anything we've received in the past.
With warm admiration for your craft,
J. Carter, ESQ.
CEO Marshall, Carter, and Dark, ltd.


"An ordnance technician at a dead run outranks everybody." -Unknown
Everything was going swimmingly. His research team had finally gotten authorization to use 914 for ordnance testing. Set to "Fine" and "Very Fine", agents were processed and tested for the stated aim of equipping Nu-7 with more capable means of containing or neutralizing hostile Keters. His team worked efficiently, and without succumbing to the temptation to abuse it for their own gain. He smiled and a plan was hatched.
The large man walked up to the machine amidst research staff engaged in their work and emptied a small canvas bag on the in side and set 914 into motion. Moments later, he quietly gathered the product on the other side of the infernal device and left without fanfare.

[Interviewer] What did you put through 914?

Returning to an isolated laboratory at the far end of a hallway and closing, but not locking, the armored blast door behind him, he prepared a large standing erection of glassware, tubing, burners and unidentifiable components off to one side. Emptying the pouch into a ball mill, he set it to pulverize the contents and waited patiently for it to finish. In the meantime, he finished filling out the requisition form for another batch of dicyanoacetylene.
The noise stopped with a soft "ding", and he rose from his desk, pouring the contents into a series of hoppers on the nightmare of glassware in the corner and opened a series of valves with hands shaking with anticipation and excitement.

[Dr. John Williamson] Beans.
[Interviewer] Beans?
[Dr. Williamson] Yes.

Slowly a ceramic collection vessel on the end massive system filled with a thick, black liquid that filled the room with a characteristic and very familiar odor, albeit one considerably stronger than he'd known. A soft smile again grew on his worn face as he closed the stopcock and lifted the collection vessel by its handle. The reservoir on the assembly continued to fill with the thick, oily black liquid as he turned to walk back to his desk, unaware of the filling reservoir that his labcoat had snagged on a handle. He dared a sip of the liquid, bringing the mug up to his lips with trembling hands. It was marvelous. Better than anything he'd produced yet. Perfection.
On his way to his desk, out of the corner of his eye Dr. Williamson saw his masterwork begin to tilt, the liquid sloshing in the almost full reservoir. Tilt and begin to fall impossibly slowly. Time seemed to drag on.
He ran for the door.
In the hallway, staff seemed to be moving in slow motion as he ran. He was almost to the end of the hallway when he heard the crash and deafening low order blast.

[Dr. Williamson] Coffee beans.


It was over.
No one in the Foundation, from the lowliest security guard to the O5 council, could quite explain exactly what was over. If they were to hazard a guess, a likely answer would have been "everything".
It was generally agreed that the first one to notice this was Dr. Victor Balakirev. Dr. Balakirev, though a veteran of many a dangerous experiment and not one to be easily surprised, couldn't believe what his eyes, or rather his high-power telescope, were telling him. What Dr. Balakirev couldn't quite believe was that a routine scan of the Crab Nebula revealed nothing but empty space where a rather conspicuous and rather hateful star was supposed to be. The alarm was raised, a dozen more telescopes were commandeered from various facilities and agencies, and there was no small amount of shouting and running around. The star, however, stubbornly refused to reappear, despite Dr. Balakirev's insistent claims that "a star isn't a bloody remote control, you don't just lose it!"
The next one to experience this strange lack of all things strange was D-682-1356, though he couldn't quite appreciate the magnitude of the occasion. He didn't know he was supposed to be the bait in what most assumed would be just another futile attempt in an endless series of failures. D-682-1356 also didn't quite know what to feel when he entered the armored vault to discover nothing more than a badly mangled skeleton when the acid bath was stopped. "So, what do you guys want me to do with that? Do you have a bone to pick with me or something? Heh."
The joke was lost on the assembled researchers, who now had more important things to worry about than D-682-1356's poor sense of humor.
So began the end. When SCP-294 was prompted to produce a cup of Joe, it made a serviceable cup of cappuccino, which utterly failed to contain any D-class flavoring. In SCP-1981, Ronald Reagan spoke only of evil empires and managed to keep a perfect complexion throughout his speech. SCP-902 was opened and discovered to be empty, and no one could quite remember why they feared it so much in the first place. SCP-076 was found to be similarly empty, though no one forgot what scared them about it.
When SCP-1867 was asked if it realized it was a slug, it didn't think for a second to object, since it very clearly was. Besides, it didn't understand the question. SCP-085 was gone from its canvas, and its inky plains and fields felt bare and empty without the presence of the young woman who once inhabited them. They found the clothes which once belonged to SCP-1440 near the top of Mount Everest. Next to them, a single word was written in the snow. "Free".
Around the world, the echos of the end became seismic shocks, and no one was spared from their influence:
The Church of the Broken God was wiped off the face of the earth. It isn't easy to maintain a working religious organization when all of your artifacts crumble to dust, and it's even more difficult to do so when half of those artifacts are inside your head.
Marshall, Carter, and Dark Ltd, having lost most of their stock and shortly after most of their members, soon faded into obscurity. Their once busy clubhouse, a hub for all things mysterious and expensive, became a place for elderly gentlemen to read the Sunday paper in peace and doze in comfortable leather chairs.
The Global Occult Coalition, after it became clear that the threats it was created to thwart were gone, was soon disbanded. The budget once dedicated to fighting the forces of the unknown was allocated to some of humanity's more mundane needs, such as the prevention of global warming and the development of more advanced nuclear weapons.
No word was heard from Doctor Wondertainment for a long time. A year after the end, a new line of Doctor Wondertainment toys was released. While "Doctor Wondertainment's Shooty Man's Vengeance" was a perfectly decent game, it was clear his/her heart wasn't in it.
When Foundation agents arrived at the current supposed location of the Factory, they found nothing more than an ordinary canned vegetable factory. The capital F was clearly no longer needed.
The Serpent's Hand lost a considerable number of its members, and with no cause to rally behind, was destroyed by the Chaos Insurgency. The Insurgency itself soon tore itself asunder like a mad dog biting at its own innards. Very few were left to be caught and executed by the Foundation.
The members of Are We Cool Yet never did become cool.
Nobody was never heard from again.
The Unusual Incident Unit continued chasing flying saucers and reports of Bigfoot (this time entirely unrelated to SCP-1000). Its agents didn't really notice.
The Foundation, as resilient as ever, was the last one standing. As the years passed, however, the reasons for its continued existence grew fewer and fewer. With all things anomalous gone, the Foundation had lost its purpose. Site after site was closed down, personnel were let go or, in the case of the few remaining D-class, terminated. Soon, only one part of the organization remained.
It was the last meeting of the O5 council. There were no heartfelt speeches or commemorative plaques, because even at its end, the O5 council was a serious body of men and women who didn't muck about with nonsense. Instead, there were a few handshakes, a few quiet words, and mostly a whole lot of silence. Finally, one at a time, the former members began to leave, until only two were left.
"So, that's that, I suppose," said O5-04, rolling a cigarette. Smoking wasn't allowed in the boardroom, but there was no one left to object.
"Is… is this it? Everything we worked for, all of our sacrifices… just worthless?" asked O5-11, staring glumly at the floor.
"Now, I wouldn't say that. We kept the peace while we were needed, and we did so as best we could. We're simply not needed anymore."
"Shouldn't I be happy? All of those terrible things we kept locked in are gone, after all. Humanity is finally safe."
"From everything but itself, yes."
"Then why do I feel like some toy, used and abused then discarded when it is no longer useful?"
"It's just the way things are. We were the jailers, the wardens holding back the storm. Now, all of our prisoners are gone. There's no need for wardens in quiet days. C'mon, let me buy you a drink."
"Yeah. A drink would be nice. Or ten."
"Hey, I'm not made of money, you know."
The two left, and closed the door behind them.


January 1, 1998
Alto H. Clef stepped out of the little circle of snow into the scorched dirt and admired his handiwork. There were some large chunks left, a few even vehicle-sized, but by and large the Mother had been reduced to the residue of a butcher shop with a very low health rating.
A gust of wind blew past him, carrying the stench of raw meat. Clef shivered, and made up his mind to buy a warmer jacket at the first opportunity. The glow of victory was only a metaphorical warmth, and failed utterly at producing actual heat. Nonetheless, he couldn't help but feel impressed as he ascended the hill. What was this, the fifth operation this month? Yeah, it was. They'd been working him ever since he woke up, which was to be expected. He'd been in the coma for over a year, and out in the field within a few days of waking up. The recovery had been expedited, in a rather experimental manner that most likely required a lot of people waving their arms in unison, if not outright flailing them.
After that he was off to Hillsborough. Fun times.
Clef passed the descending haz-mat unit and the disposal truck on his way up the hill. He waved at them. Cleanup crews were like janitors and lunch ladies: it always paid to be nice.
The crest of the hill was dotted with Coalition agents in military dress. Clef recognized most of them: several had been on his old strike team, from back before the accident. Their eyes followed him as he walked into the group: Maybe for a few of them, it was their first time seeing Agent Alto H. Clef. For others it was respect or envy or awe. Whatever the case, there were congratulations given, hands shaken, shoulders patted. Talk of bars and drinks and some laughs among friends.
A portly, balding man bundled up in winter gear stepped up to the group. The discussion faded. Assistant Director Burr had that effect. Clef had a good idea what he was going to say before he said it: waste of resources, unnecessary self-endangerment, showboating on a grand scale, all of the usual complaints.
“Clef, I've received word from Avalon. You're to go to Deep Storage as soon as possible. It seems Able wishes to speak with you personally.”
This was unexpected.
“That's…ridiculous.”
“It's been approved by the Foundation Overseer Board and the Director of Field Operations, though heaven only knows why. There's a car waiting for you.” Burr motioned over his shoulder to the vehicle. “Chainsmith and Wicker will go with you.”
—
Epon was not sure what “Processing” meant, but her gut told her to be wary. Her rear told her that this chair was uncomfortable, though she had precious little experience in judging furniture. Still, she had been told that she would be safe with them, and the trip over had been pleasant enough.
And then again, she had done this for them.
The woman on the other side of the table was clearly in a foul mood, mostly likely wondering why she was bothering with these formalities, or perhaps she was just one of the world's naturally dour people. She was older, though Epon had little skill in determining the age of others, with greying blonde hair tied back in a bun and a sour, lined face.
The woman glared over the top of her glasses.
“You contacted Coalition agents seventeen days ago, revealing the location of KTE-9927 and the threat posed by the entity. Why exactly did you help us?”
Epon shifted in her seat. The chair was incredibly uncomfortable.
“I wished to see my Mother killed,” she said. English. A bastard of a language, but she spoke it nonetheless. It was not as if the Romans still had their shrines and ceremonies.
“And why was that?”
“The birth of her world would have meant the death of everything in this. Like two babies fighting over a breast with only enough milk for one, and her children would be the stronger.”
“And why would you care about our world so much?”
“It is…difficult to explain. I was not like my brothers and sisters. I could not be. I was Mother's messenger outside, out amongst you. To do so, to pass through the barriers, I could not be with her. I could not be bonded with her as the others are. I had to be separated from her. Your world was my world.”
The woman wrote a few things down on her clipboard.
“Continue.”
“This world is my home. My real mother. I was the only one of her children who knew freedom. I couldn't let her take that away from anyone.”
She exhaled, the sound something close to a snort.
“It took me a long time to realize that, though.”
—
Clef had only seen photos of Able before, and they were blurred, chaotic ones at that. More often he saw the carnage that was left behind after a breach. Neither of those really compared to seeing the actual article now filling the screen before him: a remnant of an age long past, built for and hardened by more wars than most men could comprehend. His eyes had rage rumbling underneath the surface, restrained by some incredible act of will. At least for the moment.
Despite being separated by hundreds of feet, most of it water and concrete, Clef was filled with unease. He couldn't exactly place why, but it was there.
Clef looked over to Dr. Hornburg on his left.
"Translator ready?”
“Translator ready,” Hornburg nodded. He was the Coalition's expert in matters Daevite, most likely the only person truly fluent in their long-dead language in the world. Enough of the god's speech had been pieced together from footage of his rampages to discover that he had been speaking, among other indeterminate things, Low Daevic.
Clef pressed the transmission button.
“Hello, Able.”
[Hello, Able.] Hornburg echoed.
The god scowled, even more than his usual expression of distaste.
[Is this a jest, or have you found a face at last?]
Pretend you're Ukelele, they had said in the car. He wants to talk to Ukelele. You're a good actor, it shouldn't be too hard for you…
“As a matter of fact, I did. Took me long enough to find a good one.”
The scowl returned to normal. There may have been a twinge of amusement at the corner of his mouth.
[It ill suits you. Nonetheless, it is good to see your madness has passed.]
“Safe to say I don't remember much of it.”
[It is for the best. Your idiocy was hardly amusing.]
“Why did you want to see me?”
[Why? To speak with my brother in chains.]
Clef raised an eyebrow at Hornburg.
“I take that to be the metaphorical kind of brother.”
“Yes.”
“Just checking.”
Able continued.
[I know those worms are listening, but I will speak anyway. Let them hear it, and let them fear it. Our slavery is an abomination, brother. They used you. Chained you and used you to keep me in mine. I know not what sorceries they have bound you with, but if there is any will left in your mind, I beg you, break your chains. There ought be no quarrel between brothers, and together we could bring down these worms.]
“I'm not chained: I chose this job. I protect these people.”
[You chose? Your madness returns, brother. A slave does not choose his shackles. He may only choose not to see them.] He shook his wrist at the screen. [I will not forget. You may protect and I may destroy, but a slave does not choose.]
“Who made your chains?”
Abel spat on the floor of his chamber.
[You don't know? Blessed ignorance. The Daevas forged my chains.]
“I'm familiar with the Daevas. I don't suppose you know the Mother of Them All, then?”
[The Mother? I met her once, long ago. A poxy bitch, that one. Why do you speak of her?]
“Just thought you'd like to know that I killed her last night.”
For a moment, genuine shock came over Able's face. A few unsteady seconds passed before he threw back his head and laughed. This continued with growing intensity for a full minute, leaving him bent over double and teary-eyed.
[You killed the Whore? Ha! You are a true brother of mine, then. I wish I could have fought alongside you and put her in her place.]
“Maybe you can in the future. It could be done, Able. I can free you from your chains. I only have one request, from one slave to another.”
[Name it. The price will be worth it.]
“Leave my charges in peace.”
Able's face turned to something like melancholic half-frown, the expression of a man well out of practice with the emotion.
[A difficult request. My chains are stronger than yours.] He began to walk away from the camera. [Restraint tires me. We will speak again, brother.]
—
Further communication between KTE-0706 / SCP-076-B and Agent Clef will be allowed under both Foundation and Coalition surveillance, in order to locate and terminate other threats related to the Daevite civilization, as well as extending our knowledge of the Daevas, and in doing so discover or devise a method of liquidating or neutralizing KTE-0706 / SCP-076-B itself.
- Approved by the Foundation Overseer board and Directors' Committee


Carrying a thick folder in one hand, and a shot glass in the other, the veteran operative strode smugly into a lab that smelled strongly of beets. Here, dark plastic trays of scrawny plants were parked at odd angles around an examination table in the center of the room. A starched lab jacket had been draped thoughtfully over one corner, and it fluoresced in the ultraviolet light that leaked from the apex of a tabletop ziggurat nearby.
The owner of the jacket was wan and rather dry, like the plants he studied. He worked a large touchscreen attached to the science whatsit, rearranging cartouches of gene sequences in a dazzling Three-card Monte. He noted the intruder only with his peripheral vision, and spoke softly as he continued to tickle his puzzle.
"No beverages in the lab, please. We've got deadly toxins in here."
This is probably my favorite part of the job, thought the agent. His gray dress uniform rarely came off the hanger, but he never failed to wear it when he got to give "horrorientation" to some promising egghead. Three rows of ribbons seemed to do a lot of the talking for him. The first two rows were even genuine.
"Dr. Blodgett, you're in early today. That's helpful."
"Mm?"
"I have news. You're off ACRES."
"Hmm?"
"As of now, Syril is taking over SCP-1717 Rho."
The scientist froze one hand, mid-swipe, and looked over - his brow furrowing only slightly deeper. "Essie-pee what now?"
"That's the Foundation's formal designation for your research. You've been reassigned."
Blodgett blinked, opened his mouth once, then closed it. His nostrils flared as he sucked in a deep breath. "Reassigned? Is this the budget thing? There's nothing to — I can't — "
"It's not like that. You'll be working on a more urgent project. You've done good work here, but there are bigger fish to fry, and we think you're up to the task."
"Bigger fish than global poisoning and/or starvation?" he scoffed. "This team has made tremendous progress. To disrupt our research at this critical stage is madness. 'This is the most important study ever undertaken by Symbiosys, perhaps by mankind.' Those aren't my words. Those are the words of Director Kim."
"Yeah, well, as they say, you ain't seen nothin' yet. Kim was only El-Three, and therefore not actually a director. Not really. But now you've been promoted to El-Two - the Foundation only promotes from within, by the way. You can leave your work just as it is. Someone else will clean up, and we need to begin immediately. You've got a hell of a day ahead of you." Railroading them invariably made it sweeter.
A quizzical eyebrow. "I'm sorry — el-two? The foundation?"
"Think of us as the, uh, holding company for Symbiosys Capital Partners. That should get you through the first hour."
"Your badge is a color I haven't seen before. Who are you exactly?"
"My name is Ussein. I'm your tour guide through the looking-glass. For the rest of the afternoon, I'll be permanently altering your world-view." For emphasis, he rapped the glass down on the polished stainless steel surface beside Blodgett's hand. "It's easier if you have a belt before we get started."
"This is outrageous. I need to speak with Kim."
"As a matter of fact, he'll be our first stop, bu-ut —” he drew out the last word out in a coy, reverberating bass, "speaking with him will be difficult, as Dr. Myung Kim is currently being plucked in pulpy bits from a tumblethorn. He was a fair administrator, I'll tell you, and will be missed. As a researcher, on the other hand, he was never particularly methodical or, frankly, careful. Honestly, we're hoping that some fresh blood will improve the safety record around here. Shall we begin?"
Ussein watched carefully. His victim's confusion and anger momentarily gave way to disbelief, then stirred in fourteen months of half-formed suspicions and fragments of overheard jokes about a strange job in a strange place. Five stages of grief in five seconds.
Finally, obligingly: Blodgett gasped, paled, and made The Face. In response, the tiny remaining juvenile corner of Ussein's brain fist-pumped, and whispered, Yes!
"Here's your new badge. And you'll really be wanting the drink. Trust me - that whiskey is literally out of this world."


A collection of villanelles based on SCP articles. The second is here.

086
091
121
134
469
506
776
1045
1171
1217
1231
1440
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1599
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The Office of Dr. REDACTED [for Voct]
There is no way I should be free.
My class is Safe—I don't concur
There is much more that I could be.
Perhaps I'm treated too nicely,
More danger I could be, I'm sure
There is no way I should be free.
Between these eight pieces of me
Pencils, staples, water cooler
There is much more that I could be.
I think you're all fools, truthfully.
Why can't things be the way they were?
There is no way I should be free.
Of course I cannot speak my plea
Am I mad; what would you infer?
There is much more that I could be.
What if I rebelled, made you see?
Indeed, more research it would spur—
There is no way I should be free.
There is much more that I could be.

Nostalgia [for TroyL]
When was the time we last did meet?
For you remain despite the years
Nostalgia, so soft and sweet.
Your presence was hardly discreet
In sighs, in smiles, in laughs, in cheers
When was the time we last did meet?
Those days spent in quiet retreat
Never in sadness, nor in fears
Nostalgia, so soft and sweet.
The journeys down forgotten streets
Time spent with family and peers
When was the time we last did meet?
No more will I these loved ones greet
I'll dry my eyes and wipe my tears
Nostalgia, so soft and sweet.
With you here, now the scene's complete
These memories I've held so dear
When was the time we last did meet?
Nostalgia, so soft and sweet.

Concrete Cradle [for Mr Wilt]
You carried us as we dreamed deep
Protected us within the sky
Concrete cradle, rock us to sleep.
The flight is brief, the fall is steep
We're given new life when you die
You carried us as we dreamed deep.
Yet there is no reason to weep
We never really say goodbye.
Concrete cradle, rock us to sleep.
We grow; draw from your remains heap
Thank you for the life you supply
You carried us as we dreamed deep.
We're you anew, able to leap
Consume and think, no longer rely
Concrete cradle, rock us to sleep.
Lives to tend, existence to keep
We roam and thrive and watch you fly
You carried us as we dreamed deep
Concrete cradle, rock us to sleep.

Star-Eyed Child
Your gaze holds dark infinity
These galaxies of softened lights
Oh Star-Eyed Child, what will I see?
A universe in eyes empty
Where mys'try drifts and dreams unite
Your gaze holds dark infinity.
Draw me away; reveal to me—
The journey of a thousand nights
Oh Star-Eyed Child, what will I see?
Guide me towards eternity
Faraway worlds where flames ignite
Your gaze holds dark infinity.
There is much left to learn from thee
Please lead me through these cosmic sights
Oh Star-Eyed Child, what will I see?
The stars within shine peacefully
Away from strife and hidden frights
Your gaze holds dark infinity
Oh Star-Eyed Child, what will I see?

Many-Winged Angel
Bright angel of the endless wings
Intent simple to misconstrue
Are we to know whose wrath you bring?
Are you alive; are you sleeping?
Perhaps I'd dare to speak with you,
Bright angel of the endless wings
The horror of your toxic sting
Deems you a monster, through and through
Are we to know whose wrath you bring?
Despite our plans, to life you cling
Do you hold us in scornful view,
Bright angel of the endless wings
There are no hymns that you will sing
Through heaven's sky you never flew
Are we to know whose wrath you bring?
Why must you wake at bells ringing
When will your strength cease to renew
Bright angel of the endless wings
Are we to know whose wrath you bring?

Instant-growing Plants [for eric_h]
Zucchini growing with such speed
Blight of soil, of plant, of skin
What would you do if you were freed?
Predator produce, worse than weed
Scattering the wind with your kin
Zucchini growing with such speed
Growing, draining, paying no heed
As you crush the life, hush the din
What would you do if you were freed?
Could the earth ever meet your need?
A sorry state we would be in,
Zucchini growing with such speed
Chaos asleep in each small seed
With growth and death concealed within
What would you do if you were freed?
So continue on, nurse your greed
Remind us of our own kind's sin
Zucchini growing with such speed
What would you do if you were freed?

The Youth Cult [for Goodwill]
Do they think youth is worth such strife?
What terror dwells within this place?
Why must they cycle death for life?
Their kin born and brought to the knife
Does fright or greed drive this disgrace?
Do they think youth is worth such strife?
What meaning is there in this vice?
This fear of age and endless chase
Why must they cycle death for life?
Raising children for sacrifice
Deceit and lies in each embrace
Do they think youth is worth such strife?
Are souls cut by the sharpened knife?
The dark nature behind this chase
Why must they cycle death for life?
No sanctity for man and wife
They soon forget their own child's face.
Do they think youth is worth such strife?
Why must they cycle death for life?

Candle of Life [for Drewbear]
Tortured souls behind flame-lit screen
What makes this sight, sparks this turn?
Is this unjust, is this obscene?
Fire unholy, face left unseen
Must you grieve, for what do you yearn?
Tortured souls behind flame-lit screen
Not monster, not deadly machine
Should we even grant you concern?
Is this unjust, is this obscene?
Unlit and dark it is serene
With each flame agony returns
Tortured souls behind flame-lit screen
I watch and wonder what it means
We know it's human flesh we burn
Is this unjust, is this obscene?
The flames and walls, what writhes between?
From your anguish, what could we learn?
Tortured souls behind flame-lit screen
Is this unjust, is this obscene?

Humans Go Home [for DrEverettMann]
I LET THEM KNOW WHO'S BOSS, THAT'S ALL.
I GUESS THEY CAN'T HELP WHAT THEY ARE
WHY DO THEY KEEP COMING TO CALL?
I HATE THEIR GUTS, THEIR SKIN, THEIR SQUALL
THEIR COMPANY IS SO SUBPAR
I LET THEM KNOW WHO'S BOSS, THAT'S ALL.
I TALK TO THEM, I LIE, I STALL—
THESE HUMANS ARE JUST TOO BIZARRE
WHY DO THEY KEEP COMING TO CALL?
THE WORLD'S NOT THEIRS TO OVERHAUL
ONE OF THESE DAYS THEY'LL GO TOO FAR
I LET THEM KNOW WHO'S BOSS, THAT'S ALL.
HOW DO THEY EVEN HAVE SUCH GALL
THEY TAKE OUR JOBS, LOWER THE BAR
WHY DO THEY KEEP COMING TO CALL?
SOMEDAY THEY'LL SEE, ONE DAY THEY'LL FALL
THEY CAN'T HELP BEING WHAT THEY ARE.
I LET THEM KNOW WHO'S BOSS, THAT'S ALL.
WHY DO THEY KEEP COMING TO CALL?

An Office Complex [for Bunton]
Do you mind how I speak with you?
It's quite dull here with such few friends
Why wouldn't you let me play too?
I really don't like them, it's true—
I use them as my mood attends
Do you mind how I speak with you?
They don't complain, they won't argue
As their blood spills and their flesh rends
Why wouldn't you let me play too?
Please stop this, we implore of you
As painfully we meet our ends
Do you care how we speak with you?
It's boring here, I wish you knew
It matters not the time one spends
Why wouldn't you let me play too?
Yes, the numbers of their deaths grew
Should I try to make amends?
Do you mind how I speak with you?
Why wouldn't you let me play too?

The Theoretical Family [for Reject]
Theoretical and nothing more.
I understand; see past the lies
They weren't always pictures of gore.
For Science's sake, why not explore?
We'll search and learn and realize
Theoretical and nothing more.
“Pain is all relative,” I'm sure
Why should we try to sympathize?
They weren't always pictures of gore.
Nothing in our deeds to abhor
We'll test and watch horrors arise—
Theoretical and nothing more.
To contain, protect, thus we swore
Should we react with such surprise?
They weren't always pictures of gore.
We've certainly done worse before
And yet I cannot meet their eyes…
Theoretical and nothing more.
They weren't always pictures of gore.

The Old Man from Nowhere [for Dmatix]
I seek the All and wonder why
I live amidst the world's decay
I must still search and yearn to die
My only constant is goodbye
There is no place for me to stay
I seek the All and wonder why
Was my triumph naught but a lie?
Though over death I did hold sway
I must still search and yearn to die
“The cup, the cards, the sack,” I sigh
“How could I waste them all away?”
I seek the All and wonder why
I cannot falter, cannot cry
I travel on, try as I may
I must still search and yearn to die
I've seen too much through despair's eye
As all I love crumbles away
I seek the All and wonder why
I must still search and yearn to die

The Tarnished Legionnaire [for Dmatix]
Perhaps you'll find your peace someday
An ending to your endless fight
‘Till then, Aetius, sleep away.
Somehow you've kept your fear at bay
Throughout the void and empty night
Perhaps you'll find your peace someday
You've vowed to learn why death will stay
Soon unravel this curse of spite
‘Till then, Aetius, sleep away.
We've offered to search for a way
To understand and end your plight
Perhaps you'll find your peace someday
Triumph and life to cursed decay
One day you'll see with your own sight
‘Till then, Aetius, sleep away.
Dream on, soldier, do not dismay
You've fallen far; we'll lend our might
Perhaps you'll find your peace someday
‘Till then, Aetius, sleep away.

Broken Spybot [for Voct]
Would they try to abandon me?
Did I commit some poor action?
I'm not worthless, I could not be…
My mission stands, soon I'll be free
I still exist, I still function
Would they try to abandon me?
I'll manipulate, try to flee
I'll use a garrote! Load a gun!
I'm not worthless, I could not be…
“SIGNAL LOST” is all I see
Was there something wrong that I've done?
Would they try to abandon me?
I'll escape soon, definitely
My logs process, my systems run
I'm not worthless, I could not be…
I can still work, I will, they'll see—
No need to worry, no need, none
Would they try to abandon me?
I'm not worthless; I could not be…

Friendly Graveyard [for Roget]
We promise you that we don't bite.
You're always welcome here, dear friend
Of course we'll let you stay the night!
We are just bones, but that's alright
We've always got a hand to lend
We promise you that we don't bite.
We'll fix your clothes, set your shoes right
Courtesies simple to extend
Of course we'll let you stay the night!
We'll always keep you in our sight
To your needs we'll quickly attend
We promise you that we don't bite.
You want to leave now? You just might?
Why would you want your stay to end?
Of course we'll let you stay the night!
You'll stay after all? That's alright.
Forever now to you we'll tend.
We promise you that we don't bite.
Of course we'll let you stay the night!

"Skip" [for Silberescher]
Skip, was your gecko friend annoyed?
Yet with your antics perhaps you'll
Teach us to treasure simple joys.
Collecting junk you do enjoy
Categorizing by some rule
Skip, was your gecko friend annoyed?
We'll provide to you trash decoys
“The Foundation is cold, not cruel”
Teach us to treasure simple joys.
What could you be meant to destroy?
You're far less fierce than you are fool
Skip, was your gecko friend annoyed?
Someday for good you'll be employed
For you are more than just a tool
Teach us to treasure simple joys.
What makes you collect junk and toys
Say, “by this task I become cool”
Skip, was your gecko friend annoyed?
Teach us to treasure simple joys.

Procrastinati [for Scantron]
There's other stuff I'd rather do
Than write about a rock in rhyme
I'll write this line in later too.
It's probably memetic, true
I think I'll add in the word "lime"
There's other stuff I'd rather do.
Some other writing needs review
Did I turn off the stove in time?
I'll write this line in later too.
I have to find my other shoe
And find more words that rhyme with “ime”
There's other stuff I'd rather do.
-some line goes here that rhymes with "do"-
I'll write this line some other time
I'll write this line in later too.
What to expect? Effect's not new
I think there's something off and I'm—
There's other stuff I'd rather do
I'll write this line in later too.


December 31, 1997
Alto H. Clef ticked another box off on his bucket list. Specifically the one next to the phrase “Have coffee with the Venus of Willendorf”.
Of course, he had only added it to his bucket list several moments beforehand, after deciding that having coffee with the Venus of Willendorf was, among other things, something that could be considered a major accomplishment in life. Granted, it wasn't entirely accurate. He was the only one drinking for one, and this Venus was not a four-inch statuette dug up in lower Austria, but a rather rubenesque woman who had slid out of the womb only a few minutes before. She was still connected to the primary mass by a thick umbilical extending from the back of her head.
From his vantage point near the edge of the stone precipice, Clef had an excellent view of the cavern, the lake of milk, and the mountain of wombs and teats that rested in it, all illuminated by the soft, source-less glow that filled the place. There was some movement down on the lower slopes, faster and choppier than the steady in-out of breath. Some of the children had decided to stop their suckling, then, or at least decided to move to a better location.
Clef reconsidered his choice for a brief moment before changing the entry to “Have coffee with Shub-Niggurath”. That worked better, though it didn't really have the charm. He finished his rather lengthy sip and set his mug down on the worn stone altar that served as a table.
“That's disappointing. I was hoping that you'd be a bit more flexible with the idea.”
The proxy smiled. It was more genuine than most Clef had seen in his line of work, but that meant very little to him.
“It's not inflexibility, dear, it's incompatibility. I'd love to let you all go on with your lives, but I'm afraid your kind is too soft to handle the old ways. I would help, but a Mother has to look out for her own.”
Clef nodded in approval.
“I can respect that. Don't think anyone else will, though. There'll be a fight.”
“It's not one you can win.”
“I know. It won't stop people.”
The Mother shook her head, a twinge of sadness intruding into the smile.
“Noble fools, every one of you. I appreciate what you're trying to do, I really do. I don't like seeing my children getting hurt as much as any, but the seals are fading. Ages come and go, and the Daevas' time has come again, as has my time to bear them. I'm afraid you're too late.”
“I feel that I work better under pressure. I always end up procrastinating anyway, so waiting until the last possible second just works out better for me. Cuts out the middle man. Speaking of which, I should be going. Only a few hours to prepare for the upcoming global catastrophe, and all. Sorry to cut this short, this was a delightful conversation. I thank you for your hospitality.”
“The pleasure was all mine. I'll have Epon see you out.”
The Venus nodded past Clef's right shoulder.
Hooves clopped on stone. Clef turned to see a young woman standing behind him. She was somewhere in the indeterminate twenties, wearing simple, earth-brown robes and inherited nothing of her mother's looks or size. A cord of braided horse hair hung around her neck.
“Oh, hello there.” Clef waved to her. The girl bowed, but said nothing. Clef stood up and made to move towards the exit.
He paused after a few steps.
“One last thing…”
The scene changed: The daughter's head was locked under Clef's arm, a gun barrel pressed against her head.
“I'm wondering if your daughter here knows how to recast the seals on this place.” There was no anger in his voice. This was business. “Or if you'd be so kind as to tell me yourself.”
The shock on the Mother's face passed. The smile returned, accompanied by a chuckle, which evolved up through the chorus of laughs until it was a full-blown guffaw. The smile had lost any figment of friendliness it held before.
“You picked the wrong Mother to fuck with, boy.”
Rumbling echoed up from the slopes. Five monstrous forms pulled themselves over the edge of the promontory: misshapen, headless forms with bulbous eyes and slobbering mouths, claws sharp and ready for rending. Clef's expression didn't change.
“Give my daughter back. Now,” the Mother growled.
“Hmm…gonna have to think about that…no. My answer is no.”
With that, Clef hefted Epon over his shoulder and began to run towards the cavern's exit. The howls of the anthropophagi and the enraged screams of the Venus faded into the background. They were minor details at the moment. He may have been quicker on his own compared to the Venus' misshapen children, but he still had to complete a fifty foot sprint with a grown woman, though a small one, slung over his shoulder.
The realization that this may not have been the best idea pushed its way through the blockade of bravado. It was then beaten into submission by a combined effort of the ego, confidence, and the knowledge that everything was going entirely according to plan.
Seconds passed. However close the other children were didn't matter: they hadn't gotten him. The world was compressed into what remained between Clef and the doors.
A string of indistinct syllables intruded on the edges of Clef's condensed bubble of awareness. Epon was mumbling, a chant of some sort. It was ignored. The stone doors loomed, the glyphs glowing slightly. Clef grit his teeth and ran through it as if it were little more than a suspended sheet of water.
Stone and warmth gave way to the crunch of snow and the brilliant white of a spotlight. Clef let Epon down, only slowing his pace slightly.
“Up the hill! Run!” Clef pointed off to the left as he continued running straight ahead. He looked back just long enough to see that she had taken off up the hill, and to see her siblings emerge from the stone.
And…now.
Gunshots rang out from the hill as the snipers went to work. Clef didn't need to watch to know that they hit their marks: He suspected none of the creatures got more than ten feet.
This was far enough. He closed the remainder of the circle in the snow with his foot and scribbled a few extra symbols around it before spitting in the trench. Now to see if she had taken the bait…
She had. A fleshy blob was pushing itself out of the stone block, the wards tearing at it with invisible blades. Blood poured out across the snow as flabby, amorphous limbs formed and deformed as the mass clawed and dragged itself forward, the gashes growing deeper. The screaming was an ear-splitting mixture of rage and pain, leaning towards the rage end of the spectrum.
“Come on, ya bitch! This all you can do?”
He hadn't actually expected the taunting to work: The mass tensed for a moment before charging forward with considerable speed. Red chunks of flesh sloughed off of the mass, staining the snow. It was halfway to Clef now, close enough that he could see the half-absorbed face of the Venus cursing at him.
He smiled and stuck his fingers in his ears.
Up on the hill, an agent pressed a detonator.
A thermobaric bomb hidden under a light dusting of snow, conveniently located directly underneath where the Mother was located received the message and exploded, which was generally what bombs did.
—
The smoke and dust and ground beef rain eventually settled. Clef, still standing in his little circle of snow and completely untouched by the blast, glanced at his watch.
“Midnight already. How about that. Happy new year to me.”


Sometimes, when he closed his withered eyelids, the old man could see the prairies of his youth, the moonlight grasses, feel and hear the gentle whiskers of the wind against his flesh. But that had been long ago, hadn't it? Sometimes when he dreamed, he would forget that he was old and leap through those fields, shrieking with the elemental joy of existence. There were others there, young, like he was in the dream, their faces blurry but so heartbreakingly familiar. It felt wrong to have forgotten them.
Then he would wake again, and see the corroded metal walls of his prison. Technically, he was not bound in this cell; he could leave at any time - he just had to get up and walk out. But beyond, the world had changed into something lunatic, too bright, too complex, as though it had been designed to confuse and daze him. Burning white lights, random surfaces at dizzying intervals, so that the air seemed to drown or choke him. It had not been this bad when they had first brought him to this dismal place - or perhaps it was he who had changed, his faculties dispersing themselves into the suffocating walls.
So here he stayed. He would try to take refuge in fantasy, losing the present as he had lost so much of the past, but those open prairies were becoming harder and harder to call up of his own volition. Instead, he found himself walking endless, twisted corridors, doors sagging with decay and dark, damp mould dripping from the ceiling. He wondered whether it was the ruin of his own mind he was imagining.
He had been young once, he thought. He remembered his mother, and siblings, though in his mind they had become mixed with his children, and how they had played amongst the trees and in the open prairies. He had been taught how to hunt - in those days prey had been plentiful (no, not plentiful, he thought, but easier to catch). His mother had brought him an old, tattered one alive to show him how to hunt, and he and his brothers and sisters batted and clawed at it until it shuddered and expired. Did it think, he wondered - did it feel? Did it understand it was old and could no longer defend itself? Even then his tribe had not been large - never more than twenty.
In those days the prey were different - their bones were long and thick, they had ridges over their eyes and they wore the skins of other animals. Their teeth and claws were barely a threat to the long arms of his tribe, but sometimes they had other teeth made of stone they could hold in their hands, sharp glittering things that tore your flesh.
Then the prey had changed. A smaller, scrawnier sort of prey, with more stone teeth than the others, so that at first the tribe still hunted the bone-heads. The thinner prey hunted the bone-heads too, though not for food, and between them the supply dried up. This new sort of prey was harder to hunt and catch, even back then - they sealed themselves away in burrows which gave way to hives, with the horrible criss-crossing branches exactly perpendicular to each other that made his tribe's eyes water and their stomachs heave when they looked at them. And they had the burning light, like lightning but contained in a bundle of sticks. Still, they had prospered; he had found a mate - he found that if he tried hard he could recall the curves of her body as they lay together - and had children who ran wildly over the plains like he had.
But the prey had grown ever further entrenched, and it seemed the more the prey swarmed together the harder it was to get inside, to skip over into the twilight world that let them move through the walls and floors of their hives. They ringed their hives with running water; the first time he had burrowed into that he remembered the mind-consuming movement; a taste of what the whole world would become.
How had he been captured? He thought for a moment that he could not longer remember, until the outlines of a narrative suggested themselves to his mind. Was it true? Who could tell?
He had been alone - perhaps for decades. The last member of his tribe - he could no longer recall whether it had been his mate or one of his offspring - had vanished one day like all the rest. He sometimes entertained himself with the thought that she was still alive, then wondered what that meant. He would not wish this - this disintegration, this incomprehensible confinement - on her, or any member of his tribe.
He thought he could remember waking one day and feeling hungry - more hungry than he had ever felt in his whole existence. He had roused himself from near-hibernation in the tree where he lived and descended. The prey's hive nestled in the shadow of a hill on the far side of the lake the old man remembered being far larger in his childhood. The prey drank it, he had realised one day long ago, and in their teeming thousands depleted it. When it was dry, the prey would be gone, and then what would he do? He had approached, moving over and through earth they had pockmarked with their tall gold seed, leeching the life out of it.
The hive was bigger than he remembered, and more dazzling - the luminescence the prey produced to light their way through the night that had once belonged to his tribe catching off big, flat, reflective surfaces that seemed profoundly unnatural. Just one, he thought; he just needed one of them, then he could sleep again. He would find one of the caves the prey made under their hives and sleep. He shivered as he passed through cold, yellow light. Here, at the edge of the hive, they still had open areas around each burrow, though they had grazed the grass so thoroughly there was almost nothing left.
He remembered seeing one of them - small, tender in his mind's eye - and the old man drooled. He had watched it for days, waited for a moment when it left the safety of the pack (these days, precious few moments - they guarded their young so fiercely). Then, while it was running near its burrow, he took it; long arms closing around it and fingers searing into its flesh. A twist, practiced many, many times, and it was gone. He could not wait to hide; his hunger was too severe. His remaining teeth were already gnawing at the soft tissues of its nose and ears, even as he hugged the small body to him and shrank into the shadows of the treeline.
Then the light. Then the pain. The prey had found him hours later, eating what was left of the infant, and shone their brilliant light in his eyes. Blows fell on the old man, crushing him. He felt something pop in his arm. Something shining was looped between his wrist and the tree, and they went away. He tried to retreat to the fields in his mind, but the cold iron kept him there. He had found a way to escape it, later, but that was after they had put him in the cell at the centre of the maze.
Then the white coats had come and taken him away, and the lights had grown brighter and the pain more intense. No food, no food. He was dying, he thought, distantly, starving one day at a time. When he had been young he had seen an old man die of starvation - he had killed another member of the tribe and no-one would share their food with him. His limbs had hollowed out and his skin had become like a dried leaf.
For a long time he had hoped that others of his kind would come and find him, save him from this humiliation. But they would not relieve his hunger, he knew. They would not share their food with him. He had become that old man and he had committed sin. He could not remember the reason he had fought the larger male - times had become hard and prey scarce, and the other male had failed the tribe. It had occured to him later that the older male might have been his father.
The old man remembered the onlookers, faces blurred and shifting, watching as he pummelled the larger male to the floor and put his hand in the other's skull and moved his fingers until there was no life in there anymore. But he had done no better, and his people had grown thinner and thinner and left him, one by one, to find richer hunting grounds elsewhere. Now he was alone. And as the years went by in the metal cell, he began to think an awful thought - I am the last.
Once, these bewildering creatures in white coats would not have confused him. His mind would have been clean and sharp and he would have navigated the horrible labyrinth outside his cell.
Once but not now. Now he wandered alone in the crumbling steel darkness, the pain from his stomach overwhelming what was left of him.
I have lost everything, he thought. I have lost everything!
He twitched as he realised that in his distress he had drifted further from his cell than he ever had before - those decayed corridors of mind fell behind him and he found himself in what he thought was the waking world, but nothing like the maze he had perceived before. Here the air was so fresh his old lungs exhaled suddenly as though he had been submerged in ice. He was in a small, tunnel-like space, like the burrows of foxes or badgers but hard-cornered and metal in the fashion of the prey.
Below him were slats of light, and he realised dimly that through them he could see the world of the white coats, clean and clinical. But there was something wrong. Red lights were wheeling back and forth, hypnotically. The white coats were running; rushing away to be replaced by others with blue hard hats and determined expressions.
Then, he smelled it, the scent of injured prey, so rich, so replete in memory but so harrowingly distant that he wondered if he had imagined it, like so much else. But no, there it was again. The old man stirred long black limbs and raised himself up as far as he could, his ragged nostrils sucking in the fresh, cold air. And his ears, dulled as they were, picked up that long-forgotten cry, the gibbering assemblage of syllables, almost human, as the prey called out in pain and fear.
The dribble came thickly down his withered chin, and dry old eyes moistened again as he remembered marrow, and blood soaking into pink, juicy meat, just like it had been in the old days. No doubt the white coats would take this morsel from him as they had taken it away before. He didn't care; there was not enough left of the old man to care. He could only move, down through the slats, towards the light.
The old man came drip, drip, dripping down the wall…


The narrow alleyways of the Armenian Quarter of Old Jerusalem were beginning to darken as twilight stretched the shadows of the ancient stone buildings over them. Henry De Montfort felt the age of the city bear down on him like a lead brick, the sheer magnitude of the events it has seen dwarfing his already unimpressive frame even further. As he approached a seemingly deserted building at the corner of the old market, he wanted nothing more than to turn away and leave. De Montfort cursed silently. Damn those foolish old men for choosing this place. They did it on purpose, he was sure, they knew how uncomfortable the memories of their joint history made him. Well, he wasn't about to give them the satisfaction of seeing him cower before a few piles of old bricks. Not when he finally won.
De Montfort knocked on the heavy iron door at the front of the building, and through a hatch appeared a pair of suspicious eyes.
"Where did you come from?"
"From the walls of Carcassonne, mighty and thick."
There was a sliding sound, and the door opened to reveal a heavyset man with a broken nose wearing the shift of a Cistercian monk.
"You're late."
"You can't rush progress, Brother Alberic."
"Tell that to the old men. You know how they get."
That he did. As he was ushered in by Brother Alberic he could hear the sounds of a heated argument from the inner chamber:
"… they still expect us to continue our funding after the fiasco with the honey? That's absurd!"
"The Manna Charitable Foundation has proved to be a valuable asset in the past. It would be prudent to-"
"Valuable? That honey of theirs killed thousands! More! If anyone discovers our connection with them we might as well bury our efforts in East Africa. No, from now on, they are on their own."
"Adnan?"
"I'm sorry, Bernard, but I have to side with Samuel here. They are a liability the Initiative can no longer afford to be associated with. The honey was simply the final straw in a haystack of failures."
De Montfort cleared his throat loudly.
"We shall continue this discussion later,” said the voice from within. "Come in, Henry. You said you had some important matters to discuss.”
“I should bloody well hope so,” grunted another. “If he insisted on meeting us in person to discuss them. We are busy men, De Montfort, this better be good.”
De Montfort entered the dim room. Most of it was taken by a wooden dais, on which three heavy leather chairs were stationed. The occupants of the chairs were shrouded in darkness, a pointless precautionary measure, since De Montfort knew perfectly well who they were. He didn't care. Let the old men have their fun playing spies if they wished.
"I assure you, gentlemen, it is. I am here to inform you that the Montsegur Loyalists are no more. If the information we have is correct, the death of their final member should rid us of Bélibaste's journal once and for all."
"Excellent work, De Montfort,” said the central chair. "The Cathars have been a thorn in our side for far too long, spreading their foul heresy, and that journal was one of their greatest tools. Might I ask how you disposed of him?"
“I'm afraid this is where things begin to get complicated. We found him using one of the relics, and disposed of him using another.”
This caused quite the commotion. De Montfort was surprised at the amount of noise three old men could produce.
When he next addressed him, the outrage in the voice of the left chair was obvious. "You dared to use one of the relics as a killing tool? The relics are sacred objects, De Montfort, as you of all people should know!"
"I had no choice. Someone informed the Foundation of the whereabouts of the last Cathar. We couldn't risk them getting their hands on him, not considering what he knew. It had to be done."
The chamber was silent for a moment. Then, the central chair spoke. "How did they find out? The only way they could possibly… Oh no."
"A traitor. Someone within the Horizon Initiative must have informed them."
"Well, we all know which section of the Initiative this traitor most likely belongs to," said the right chair. "The journal was stolen from your archives, after all."
There was anger in the voice of the central chair. "What exactly are you accusing me of? The Initiative didn't even exist when the journal was stolen, and you know how the situation in Europe was in the years following the theft. The church had larger matters to deal with than an ancient heresy!"
"Oh, we all know how busy the church was," said the right chair, a dangerous undertone sneaking into his voice. "Yes, the wars kept it very busy indeed."
The left chair sighed. "Gentlemen, this isn't the time. Allow De Montfort to finish his report."
"As I was saying, a relic was used to sabotage the Foundation's attempt to retrieve the last Cathar, leading to his death. As far as we know, they remain unaware of our intervention."
"Very well, the matter is closed then. If that is all, I believe we can adjourn-"
"Not quite,” De Montfort interrupted. "There is one more subject I wished to discuss with you. Project Malleus. The Initiative has spent far too long fighting old enemies and burying even older secrets, while new and much more dire threats have arisen. The last Cathar showed us how dangerous inaction can be. It is time we take the fight to them."
This caught the old men by surprise. "Impossible!" said the central chair. "Confronting the Fifth Church and the Church of the Broken God directly?! It's madness!"
The left chair seemed to agree. "We are still far too few, and far too young. Those groups hold many powerful relics, and who knows what else. The Initiative is still in its infancy, and our support structure is very limited. We must learn to crawl before we can run."
De Montfort was somewhat surprised at the indignation in his voice when he spoke next: "Crawl? We are the leaders of man, the shepherds, the bearers of the sacred light, and you want us to grovel at the feet of pagans and idol worshipers? When will the Initiative be strong enough? When the pieces of the True Cross are burned to fuel a Fifth ritual? When the Menorah is smelted for gears? When the Kaaba is shattered by heathens? We cannot continue to rely on secular groups to stop a spiritual threat such as this. They do not understand, cannot understand. They think they are fighting to preserve normalcy, to defend humanity's flesh. We know we are fighting for nothing less than its eternal soul."
Silence.
Finally, the right chair spoke. "As much as I hate to admit it, you are right. You have the support of the Sons of Shamai. Let it never be said we have cowered before evil again."
The left chair spoke next. "Atibba al-Kitab are behind you as well. I have let our weakness cloud my judgment and shake my resolve. We must fight, regardless of the odds. It is our privilege and our duty."
The center chair was last. "It seems I have no choice. The Ordinis Occulti Luminis are with you as well. You may begin the first phase of Project Malleus. We will require additional reports before approving anything further. Leave us."
As De Montfort made his way through the now dark streets back to his hotel, a smile crept to his face. He knew informing the Foundation of the last Cathar was the right thing to do. With the old men finally stirred from their complacency, the world was about to find out just how terrible the Wrath of God could be.


March 18, 1997
Dr. Connor Gerry was counting gears. As of three thirty-four in the afternoon, having started at eleven minutes past noon, he had counted one thousand seven hundred and nineteen of them. By his best estimation, he would finish counting in nine to twelve hours, with a total of eight to ten thousand gears.
He continued counting.
The machine kept time, though not in such a simple way as a clock. It was an orchestra: Tempo shifts, key changes, harmonies, all of which were marked and memorized by the man counting the gears.
Were there anyone in that room to watch, they would have noticed that he was tapping his foot in time with the clockwork.
—
June 1, 1997
“Well that's that. There's nothin' more I can do for this.” Pat leaned back in his chair. “Should be ready to go.”
‘If you'll do the honors.” Crow gave an approving nod. Gerry stood there and watched from the background.
Pat cracked his knuckles.
“Now if things go Skynet, what you need to do is smash it repeatedly until it stops doing whatever is not supposed to be happening and find another computer support guy, probably one from ten to thirty years in the future.”
A few keystrokes and clicks later, and everything came together. Many long nights of feeding components through the Clockwork on fine, figuring out how it worked, hooking it all up into an over-wired, room-filling monstrosity decades more advanced than the best computers available…Pat loved it. It made dealing with everyone's problems tolerable, or it at least lessened the pain of hearing about how someone managed to get dolphin semen on their keyboards or make their monitors explode.
Lines of text with meaning only to those versed in the arcane arts of the motherboard scrolled up the screen, almost distressingly fast. Pat's eyes skimmed it. He didn't know what half of it meant himself: this entire project was flailing about in the dark.
The text disappeared from the screen, replaced with a single input line. Deceivingly primitive.
A string of letters wrote themselves out on screen.

Overseer O5-1 “Crom” online

“Did it work?”
“It worked.”
—
Date: 6/8/97
To: Site 19 Senior Staff
From: Dr. Adam Pathos Crow
Subject: Administration Changes
Dear friends:
The subject of administration has come up again and again in recent months, and several of you have spoken to me of the difficulties in juggling overseeing both research of items and administration of the Foundation itself. With the recent influx of items and staff, as well as our current partnership with the Global Occult Coalition, I share your concerns.
As such, I will make official my position as Administrator of the Foundation, and with the aid of Dr. Gerry, will select proven individuals for the new O5 Overseer Board. Nominations from senior staff will also be considered.
The Overseer Board will serve as Foundation-wide administration, overseeing all projects across the scope of the Foundation without direct involvement, allowing research staff more time and freedom to focus on more in-depth study.
For security purposes, appointments to the O5 board and the identities of the appointees will not be made public.
The Advisory Committee will remain intact under the A4 designation, and we will be meeting as usual this upcoming Monday.
-With sincerity,
Administrator Crow.
—
September 23, 1997
“Nemo's in, so is Fats.”
“I'm not surprised. Do you have the list I asked you to make?”
“Yeah. 408 and 953 are on the table, Nemo thinks we can take him out without using anything special.”
“The butterflies, they can work. Not the fox. Keep looking.”
—
October 20, 1997
The little feeling at the back of his subconscious assured him that the scenes in his minds eye were dreams, not memories. The haze of half-sleep made it difficult to tell. He felt the need to do something, that there were people he needed to talk to about…something…with, but these events weren't real. He knew that. He'd never been to these places. He'd never met these people. He was no stranger to dead bodies, of course, but these visions were just excessive.
He brushed away the fake thoughts and made to wake himself up, the mental equivalent of swimming through pudding.
Eyes open, ears open. Hospital bed. Safety. An orderly standing nearby, reading charts.
Some slurred mess of sound dribbled out of his mouth. It hadn't been properly used in some time. The orderly looked up. He didn't recognize her, but the little feeling at the back of his subconscious claimed he had nothing to fear here.
“Good to see you back in the land of the living, Agent Clef.”


I. Praefatio
These well-lit rooms and stainless halls
Are host to choruses of fear
Behind each door a nightmare calls
Contained by persons without peer
Another test requires my aid
I pass the doors and darkened stairs
I've felt the terror, still I've stayed
I've let go of my woes and cares.
I should have left, and just moved on
They cautioned me: “Don't linger, please.”
And still I feel I'm somehow drawn—
So strange are these anomalies.
These horrors spin their selfsame song
Have I been dreaming all along?
II. Persisto
Dark tales of old and stories grim
Horrors unsheathed, without respite
Long needles, amputated limbs
Are not rare sights within these sites.
Body bags, festering rot
Things looked upon with such disgrace
Perhaps it's best to question not
How to stay sane within this place.
This Foundation, these personnel
With minds so sharp and nerves of steel
Track the nightmares where they dwell
And ponder what is truly real.
Don't ask them of the better days
Their laughter wipes the dreams away.
III. Papilio
You are of trance and mysteries
Oh, Illusory Butterflies
I wonder of your memories
Please weave your wings and show me lies.
Oh Five five three, a jewel are you
Whether adult or small larva
You are a masterpiece, it's true
Of calcite, quartz, and silica.
Poor Weather Bug, you met your end
No more the air will you explore
No air pressure will your wings rend
May you sleep softly evermore.
Illusions, weather, crystal gleams
Your beauty is the stuff of dreams.


“And who would you be?”
“Oh, I'm new… Here's my ID.”
“You're the person working with that butterfly… One… one four… five something, right? Feeding duty or something of the like? Down the stairs, second hallway.”
“1457. Yes, I believe I am.”
“Good luck. As far as I know, it doesn't bite, spit fire, snap necks, eat people whole, create—”
“Well, that's—good to know, I guess. Also, if you don't mind me asking,”
“Counseling is available.”
“…can I contact anyone outside of the Site? Phone calls, emails, or something like that?”
“Not sure. Might be able to send memos or something. What, to family?”
“Actually, I pretty much have one person in mind. They can contact my family for me. Would that be too much trouble?”
“I'll ask around. You probably won't be able to discuss your research with anyone besides staff, though.”
“Thanks.”

Memo #█
█████,
It's been awhile. I can't thank you enough for seeing me off last month—I know it was abrupt, and I'll miss being able to talk with you as often as before. Really, we're still at the same college; I'll just be away for research. I promise I'll visit as often as I can.
—K

“Well, what memory did you receive today? Divorce again? The butterfly seems full of divorce stories.”
“No, it was… well, something worse. A lot worse. I really wonder where the butterfly traveled since I didn't recognize the setting.”
“War? Murder?”
“Something like that. Dead bodies.”
“There are a lot of dead bodies found here too.”
“…funny.”
“I try to be. I've heard about that butterfly of yours, you know. A few others have too. It's not an easy task. You're not breaking bones, but there's always the chance that you'll be breaking your heart many times over.”
“Thanks for understanding?”
“Welcome. “The Foundation is cold, not cruel”, you know. You're new, but others here will help you out if you need anything. We understand.”

Memo #█
█████,
I heard about Mr. ███. As it is, and I'm very sorry, but I can't attend the funeral. I know we've both known him for so many years, and it's thanks to him that we met, but the past few days have been really stressful for me, and truth be told I don't think I'd be able to keep myself together during the funeral. Tell ██████ I'm sorry and I'll help her out any way I can, once I finish up the work here.
Is that why you didn't reply to my last letter?
—K

“You doing alright? It's been what, two months? Those daily doses of loneliness can't be good for you.”
“I'll be okay. I mean, I know these things happen every day to people all over the world, right? It's not like they're anything new to the human race.”
“Suit yourself. The Foundation is depending on you. And really, if you need help or someone to talk to—”
“I'll be alright.”

Memo #██
█████,
I just found out that you won't be able to write back to me. Foundation protocol or something. Again, I'm sorry—I didn't know. I assure you though, once we meet up again, I'll listen to everything you have to say and we'll catch up over coffee at your favorite place. The staff here have been nice, but they can't compare to you. They don't understand, I guess.
—K

“Researcher, I'm sorry, but medication cannot be prescribed at this point in time. The experiments have not been concluded. Counseling is available, though; I believe you have been informed of the hours…?”
“I'd prefer to speak to someone I know well.”
“I'm sorry, that cannot be arranged at this moment. I'd advise you to wait for a few more days. There was a containment breach last night, and besides, 1457 seems to have taken a liking to you.”
“Can't you find someone else?”
“The fact of the matter stands that you scored proficiently in the EI test administered at the beginning of your employment, and thus you are the best candidate to deal with this particular SCP.”
“I asked… But no one… no one else bothered…”
“What?”
“Nothing.”

Memo #██
█████,
I really thought I'd be able to meet up with you this month. If I had known it would be like this… I wouldn't have bothered. I'll see what I can do. I miss you more than ever. I miss you and everyone and everything else at home. I can't speak about my research, but apparently it's going well, so there's nothing to worry about.
—K

“So, who do you keep writing to anyway?”
“Someone at home. Waiting for me, I guess.”
“Must be pretty patient. It's been almost a year. And you're the only one who can write, since the Foundation doesn't want your mental state compromised.”
“What?”
“It's for your own good. Everyone can see that you're getting stressed out, so why bother forcing more strain on you? Also, on the off chance that someone working against the Foundation finds out about who you're writing to, it's best that… never mind. Did you make any promises before you left?”
“…we both did.”
“Then I'd say you don't have anything to worry about. Cheer up. From what I hear, your research is going quite well.”

Memo #██
█████,
Just thought I'd let you know that I'm still alive, if tired, and I just found an old picture of us in one of my desk drawers. Made my day. Remember that first concert? The height difference was so obvious even then.
—K

“I understand that the latest memory was particularly jarring to you?”
“Yes. Normally I wouldn't bother asking for counseling… no offense intended… but for some reason, the containment unit seemed so—empty. There were people less than five feet away, walking around outside the containment unit, but I felt… well, I needed someone to talk to. Before was different, but now… the Foundation staff have been nice, but maybe if someone could share the memories I've been receiving—?”
“Your request will be noted.”
“I know medicine is out of the question now, someone explained to me about experimental procedures, but I just… don't know what to do, really. I have all these stories in my head, but I feel like it's impossible for anyone else to really understand, because no one else has seen these images or felt all these years and years of… everything.”

Memo #██
█████,
Good news! I think I'll be able to visit in about a week. Until then, I will continue to think obsessively, incessantly, ever only, of you.
—K

“Holding up alright?”
“Not getting enough sleep. But I'll manage. Somehow.”
“The whole “living day to day” approach, is it?”
“Sort of. There's just one thing I'm waiting for, and things will be alright after that.”
“That person, huh? Are we Foundation staff not the best conversationalists or something?”
“It's not that.”

Memo #███
█████,
I'm really looking forward to being able to speak with you again, face to face. No more of these memos. And you'll be able to see if my humor has improved at all—remember how we used to joke about that every Friday? Or rather you would, and I would just make sarcastic comments. Of course, it's better than when we were kids and I didn't talk to you at all, right? I miss those times, growing up. And to think, in about two days, we'll have known each other for ten years! Amazing, isn't it?
—K

"Finally got that break, huh? So, what happened? Did you meet up? Talk about your lives and how everything has been?"
"Please don't ask.”
“Did you talk at all?”
“Just… leave me alone."

Memo #███
█████,
I understand. Thanks for bearing with me all this time and telling █████ to let me know what happened. Wish I could have said goodbye at least.
My best wishes to you two.
—K


On ██/██/████, SCP-682 broke containment and proceeded to escape to Research Unit-█, which is the primary unit used to receive communications from SCP-1548. SCP-682 proceeded to kill all personnel in the area and began to use communication gear to send messages in Morse code to SCP-1548. The messages sent by SCP-682 and responses by SCP-1548 are recorded here.Thought you'd be more than a big toothy snout. Motherfucker, I don't leave the Foundation D-class to spare!Don't you dare try to match my damn rhymes.
Signals from space, that's what I send,
I fill 05 with a sense of dread!
Crab Galaxy they call me, that's what they say,
Hell, the only crabs are in yo' Mother's puss-ay!
To me, you're a gecko, that's all you are,
Now excuse me while I go and put out your star!Your hate ain't nothing, just empty space shit.
I can't be killed, I'm the bane of the Foundation,
You're so old, you've been around since creation!
Full of hot air, you're just empty threats!
I use force to back up my epithets!
You're from this dimension, for me that ain't so,
I'm beyond this universe, give it up mofo!I'm in their nightmares while they slumber!
The truest of true, the most dangerous here,
It's me, not you, who deserves the fear!
Voids in my wake, rage in my mind,
When I'm done with Earth, they'll be nothing left to find!
Who the fuck you are, trying to outdo me,
I'm a motherfucking galaxy!
Worlds I devour, bitch, I've beaten you,
The true danger's me, not goddamn 682!I change myself to whatever fits.
Dozens, hundreds, thousands I've killed,
Hell, my hunger still isn't filled!
Life is my enemy, all living must die,
You ever faced me, you know you would cry,
I change, I adapt, I'm the biggest badass,
For you, three feet a year is fast!
I'm 682, killer of men,
I give wounds no doctor can mend.
I can tell right now, I've got you fuming,
Now for those disgusting humans.
Following the final transmission, SCP-682 killed ██ security personnel before being subdued. SCP-1548's transmissions since have included several requests for a "rematch".


This is the twenty-third time I'm doing it. I log into the system (which, thankfully, isn't sentient) and once again get into my personal log. This is the twenty-third different report of my death they've submitted; I make it a point to delete them every single day so they don't lock me out of the system, and they still keep coming.
Oh joy. Today's news: "Researcher ████ was killed by SCP-████ during a containment breach on ██/██/████ when it [DATA EXPUNGED] causing the deaths of five security staff and two research personnel in total. Researcher ████ was discovered in the process of consumption by SCP-████, and his corpse was destroyed to prevent the spread of SCP-████-2."
Another day, another skip. You think you're clever, don't you? Well, you're not. That's right, I'm talking to you, Mr. Skippy, you blasted piece of shit. Oh, they think you're a toy gun that transports people into the past and kills them? Well fuck me, you're not, sly bugger. Oh, no.

Object Class: Euclid Neutralised
Description: SCP-████ is a violet-coloured toy gun, designed to otherwise resemble a Beretta 92 9mm handgun. It appears to have been designed to fire foam darts, and is marked with the logo of the organisation A.N.G.E.L. The organisation has been confirmed to be a purely fictional international military force from the ████████ series of young adult adventure novels, dealing with cases of time travel and continuity errors.
The object's primary anomalous effect manifests when its trigger is pulled while it is held by a human hand and pointed at a human subject; upon this occurring SCP-████ will emit a flash of white light. The target will appear to fly backwards for a short period of time, then disappear from view and be transported into a lethal event in the past 24 hours, resulting in its death. The object's anomalous effect appears to be unable to influence causality of future events; how it achieves this is uncertain. However, the circumstances of the subject's death invariably change every 24 hours, providing a plausible explanation for the maintenance of temporal continuity.

You're an asshole, Skippy. I don't know who made you, but when I find him/her/it I'm going to shoot that person with you, and then kill him/her/it off for real. Who knows, maybe I'll be credited for that good deed. Heaven knows my karma sucks.
I leave the room, having done my first job for the day. I've removed the records of my death once again, and now I'm off to do the other part of my job. I keep a gun on hand at all times now. Not a crappy one like you, but a real gun, an actual honest-to-goodness .45. Pay close attention, Skippy, because this is fucking important. I've discovered that nobody can see or hear these D's, whether they're dead or alive; I've been into the labs, and some of the anti-SCP-████-A nets still have dead, rotting D's in them. And what's the first thing a free, invisible, nearly-invulnerable murderer would do? Kill people.

The object's secondary anomalous effect, SCP-████-A, begins to manifest shortly after its primary effect has occurred; the duration between the disappearance of the subject and the manifestation of an instance of SCP-████-A appears to roughly be negatively correlated to the subject's previous IQ level. SCP-████-A is theorised to be an entity of indeterminate nature. All attempts to communicate with or capture audiovisual evidence of the entity have failed, but the nature of its physical interactions with its surroundings indicates that it is able to interact with physical objects and people.

The first recorded instance of SCP-████-A was when a member of security staff outside the testing chamber reported a slight nudge, described as resembling having been accidentally brushed against several minutes after subject D-████-15 was "shot" with SCP-████. Attempts to track or capture SCP-████-A entities have uniformly failed; tracking or imaging devices attached to D-Class subjects cease transmission as expected and are to be presumed destroyed, and capture attempts using electrified nets have produced no results apart from a slight increase in mass of the net. It is important to note that instances of SCP-████-A will always manifest outside the testing chamber for SCP-████.

I make it my duty to get rid of the ones that got away before they kill someone else. Mysterious deaths aren't uncommon around here; everyone chalks them up to something or other, no matter how ludicrous. I even saw a memo a month ago about a "neck-breaking flu" going around on site that supposedly made people sneeze hard enough to snap their necks; containment involved wearing a mask and avoiding contact with a skip I'm sure was innocent—
Hey, Skippy! There's one of your little fucking invisible men, right outside Dr. █████'s office, and he has no clue that I can see him. Bang, bang, and he's dead. Nobody hears the gunshots, and everyone just steps around his corpse unconsciously; it's a thing you apparently make them do. I step over and drag his corpse away, making sure not to bump into anyone. I'll put it in the kitchen dumpster later, where it'll be incinerated with the rest of the day's trash.
That bastard looked like he was enjoying himself a little too much.

Memo to Staff, Break Room Site-██, ██/██/████: We understand that members of staff at Site-██ have reported incidents of seemingly human bodily fluids and waste appearing in seemingly random locations, and occasionally being deposited on them without warning. Analysis of these substances has produced constant experimental errors precluding the accurate determination of results. Any security or research staff encountering the anomalous object(s) responsible for this are to attempt to contain, or if unable to do so terminate, them; the bodily fluids and waste of these anomalous objects are potential biohazard transmission vectors. - Head of Security, ████████

Great, Skippy, look what you've made me do. There's blood everywhere, and everyone's just stepping in it like it's nothing. I'll be the only one who can see the stuff, at least for a couple of hours. Ugh. When I was a researcher I never had to deal with dead D's; they'd always get a cleanup crew to remove the corpses. Now I'm judge, jury, executioner and janitor, complete with shit-handling duties. Have I mentioned how much I hate you?
Yeah, you suck. You've killed at least 17 people, and those are just the deaths with ridiculous explanations. How does that feel? I bet that feels bloody good. I bet you do this just to be evil. I bet you do this just because you can.
Well fuck you, Skippy. I'm not letting you do this. I'm not having any of it. Most of the escaped D's are my fault, I admit. I shot them for science. But they're running about the place because of your anomalous effect. You've made them invisible, for all intents and purposes. Thankfully the special containment procedures for most of the important things are secure enough that even invisible D's can't get at them; I can hardly imagine the consequences of SCP-████ getting loose just because some asshole D happens to find its enclosure. But fuck, these D's have been in jail for a very long time, and there's lots of other things they'd like to do other than release skips that being invisible makes doing easier. Poor Dr. █████'s been forced into protective detention for her own safety. You ought to feel bad, you sick piece of shit.
I can't destroy you, but I can stop you. I've taken out ten escaped D's so far. There's about a dozen or so left. Once I'm done with that, that's it. I've conducted personality assessments on myself each day since my "death". I'm beginning to show signs of psychopathy and increasing sexual deviance. Yesterday I found myself thinking about visiting my darling Research Assistant ████████ in the shower. I'm beginning to think about shooting those bastards who put me to work researching you, Drs. ████ and █████████. Fucking hell. If this progresses, I'm going to become another mass-murdering D. Hell no, Skippy. You are not going to do this to me.

Addendum: Incident Log ████-A:
On ██/██/████, Researcher ████ conducted a test on D-████-24 to -27 to determine the penetrative ability of a single "shot" from SCP-████. A single shot was sufficient to cause the disappearance of all subjects. Shortly afterwards, an instance of SCP-████-A manifested, knocking Researcher ████ to the ground as he exited the containment chamber, before the door could be sealed. SCP-████ was accidentally discharged. Researcher ████ and SCP-████ promptly disappeared. SCP-████ is believed to have been neutralised.

Well, look on the bright side, ████. You've always wanted to see what SCP-███ looked like on the inside.

Name: Researcher ████:
(…)
Location: Not Applicable (KIA)
(…)
Addendum: Death Report of Researcher ████, filed by Research Assistant ████████: On ██/██/████, SCP-███ unexpectedly regurgitated a single humerus bone, found to be from Researcher ████. It is presumed Researcher ████'s accident with SCP-████ resulted in his demise in this manner.

Memo to Staff, Break Room Site-██, ██/██/████: As of ██/██/████, anomalous deposition of seemingly human bodily fluids and wastes has ceased. It is to be presumed the entities responsible have either escaped or died of natural causes, as no report of successful containment or termination has been received. - Head of Security, ████████